Queen Manor – The Next Morning
The morning light spilled into Queen Manor with regal indifference, illuminating every inch of polished marble and antique furniture with golden warmth. The house was too quiet, the kind of quiet that had weight to it, like the air itself remembered everything it had seen and wasn't sure if it was ready to let the past go.
Oliver stood at the kitchen island, cradling a glass of water like it might help him feel something. His eyes were fixed out the window, but they weren't really seeing the view. Just trees. Trees and ghosts. The sleeves of his gray Henley were pushed up, revealing the jagged constellation of scars that marked his arms—stories etched into skin that no one had heard yet.
Thea padded in silently, barefoot, wearing a faded Starling City Rockets T-shirt that hung just off one shoulder. Her ponytail was lopsided, and she looked like she hadn't slept much—like she'd been up thinking, worrying, maybe both.
She froze when she saw him, then crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe.
"You know," she said, voice casual in that way that screamed it wasn't, "most people come back from a yacht trip with some sunburn and a few trashy stories. You came back with… all that."
Oliver blinked and glanced down at his arm. He rolled his sleeve down without a word.
"The island didn't exactly have a swim-up bar," he said flatly.
Thea arched a brow and stepped further into the kitchen.
"Still could've brought me something other than a stone arrowhead," she muttered, then added more softly, "You ever gonna tell me what happened out there?"
Oliver didn't answer immediately. His jaw flexed, eyes flicking away from hers.
"I'm not ready, Speedy."
Thea rolled her eyes and walked over to the counter, grabbing a banana and peeling it with unnecessary force.
"You keep saying that. Like it's some get-out-of-sharing-free card."
"It's not that simple," he said, voice low.
"Maybe it is," she replied, taking a bite. "Maybe you're just scared to admit that whatever happened changed you. That it broke you."
He turned to her then, slowly, and there was a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes—but underneath that, something vulnerable.
"You think I don't know that? That I haven't spent every day since I got back trying to figure out if I'm still the guy who left?"
Thea shrugged. "I don't know. Are you?"
Oliver didn't answer.
The silence stretched.
Then Thea sighed and jerked her head toward the back door. "Come on. I wanna show you something."
Outside, the late spring breeze tugged at the hedges as they walked across the back lawn. Thea's pace was steady. Oliver followed a step behind, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense.
They reached the grove behind the garden, where the trees grew thicker and the world seemed quieter. In the center of the clearing was a polished gray tombstone nestled between rose bushes and weathered stone benches.
Thea stopped in front of it, her arms falling to her sides.
Oliver froze.
He stared at the headstone.
OLIVER JONAS QUEEN
1998 – 2020
Beloved Son, Brother, and Friend.
His throat tightened.
"You were dead," Thea said, her voice soft. "To the world. To us. And for a long time, it felt like... I was too."
Oliver's eyes didn't leave the stone.
"I used to come here all the time," she continued. "Sometimes I yelled at you. Cried. Sometimes I just sat. But most days? I talked. About school. Mom. About... Harry."
That got his attention. He looked at her.
Thea gave a half-smile, a sad one. "You should've seen him when he first got here. He was like a walking whisper. Would barely look anyone in the eye. Mumbling into his cereal like the world might snap if he made a sound."
"Harry?" Oliver asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Right?" she said with a laugh. "Now he's practically the snarkiest person in the house. Well, second to me, obviously."
"I don't know. He's got a sharp tongue," Oliver muttered.
"Only because he learned from the best," she replied with a wink.
Oliver looked back at the headstone.
"So he... stepped up?"
"He had to," Thea said. "I needed someone, Ollie. And you were... well, a name on a stone. But Harry? He tried. Even when he was awkward and quiet and didn't know what to say, he tried. And eventually, he became... he became my big brother. Not the big brother. But a big brother."
Oliver turned to her slowly. His expression was unreadable.
"And now I'm back," he said quietly, "and I don't feel like either."
Thea bit her lip. "You don't have to be the guy you were before. I don't expect that. Honestly, that guy was kind of an arrogant jackass."
Oliver gave a soft huff of amusement.
"But I do expect you to let me in," she added. "Because right now? I feel more connected to the guy whose name is on that rock than the one standing in front of me."
Oliver stared at her, the words hitting harder than he expected. He turned away, looking at the trees instead, swallowing hard.
"I want to," he said finally. "I just... I don't know how."
Thea stepped closer and slipped her hand into his.
"Then let me help," she said. "Whatever you've been through, whoever you are now... just don't shut me out. We've already lost enough time."
He nodded slowly. It wasn't a vow. But it was a start.
She gave his hand a squeeze, then let go and wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist like it didn't matter.
"Come on," she said, already walking. "Breakfast is probably cold, but Raisa's scones could survive a nuclear apocalypse. And she's back, by the way."
Oliver blinked. "Raisa's here?"
"Yeah. She got in last night. You think Harry learned how to drink tea like a judgmental snob all by himself?"
Oliver chuckled under his breath and followed her.
"I always knew he was hiding a butler in his soul."
"Please, that boy probably is a butler in his soul. He corrects my grammar."
"You need your grammar corrected."
"Okay, rude. You disappear for five years and this is how you talk to me?"
And just like that, the path home didn't seem so long anymore.
—
Later That Day – Laurel Lance's Apartment
The shadows stretched long across the pavement as the glossy black SUV pulled up to the curb. The engine idled, purring softly like a large cat at rest. John Diggle adjusted the rearview mirror and glanced at the man sitting in the back seat.
Oliver Queen was uncharacteristically quiet.
"You sure about this?" Diggle asked, not bothering to turn around.
Oliver let out a slow breath, rubbing his palm against the back of his neck. "Nope."
Diggle raised an eyebrow in the mirror.
"But I'm doing it anyway," Oliver added, reaching for the paper bag beside him.
Diggle nodded once. "Alright then. I'll be close. Just holler if you need extraction. Or emotional triage."
Oliver quirked a dry smile, appreciating the sarcasm. "You're not funny."
"You keep saying that," Diggle replied, already checking the surrounding rooftops with the kind of natural ease that said bodyguard mode: activated.
Oliver stepped out into the early evening air. It was cooler than usual, the kind of breeze that hinted at autumn. He adjusted the cuffs of his navy-blue shirt, slung the bag over one arm, and headed up the front steps of the building like a man preparing for a firefight… or a very awkward conversation.
He knocked.
The door opened a few moments later—Laurel, casual in yoga pants and a grey hoodie that hung off one shoulder. Her hair was half-braided, half-chaotic, and she looked like she'd just come from either a run or a very intense nap.
Her eyes widened. "Oliver?"
Oliver smiled, almost sheepishly. "Hi."
Laurel didn't move. "Uh… okay, you do know there's such a thing as texting, right? Or calling. Even smoke signals."
"I wanted to come by," he said. "In person."
Her brow arched. "Why? You lost again? Looking for your penthouse?"
Oliver shook his head, the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "No. I actually came here on purpose."
Laurel folded her arms, leaning slightly on the doorframe. "You do realize we're not exactly having movie nights and sharing Spotify playlists these days, right?"
"I know," he said quietly. "We're… complicated. But I had this thought—more like a daydream—back on the island."
Her eyes narrowed, skeptical. "This better not end with you shirtless and saying something dramatically tortured."
Oliver laughed, genuinely. "Wow. I get it. My reputation precedes me."
"Laurel," he said, lifting the brown paper bag a little higher. "I dreamed—actually dreamed—about eating ice cream with you. On a couch. Just… you, me, and a couple of spoons. No drama. No lies. No paparazzi."
She stared at him.
He slowly pulled two pints from the bag—Mint Chocolate Chip and Cookies & Cream—and held them out like peace offerings. "And yes, I brought your favorite."
Her lips parted, then closed again. She looked from the pints to his face.
"You're serious?" she asked, her voice caught somewhere between disbelief and a laugh.
Oliver nodded solemnly. "Five years. No ice cream. Do you have any idea how painful that is?"
Laurel blinked, the corner of her mouth twitching. "I don't know if this is adorable or the weirdest attempt at reconciliation I've ever seen."
"I'm willing to bet both," he said. "Look, I'm not here to fix everything. Or talk about... the other stuff. I just wanted a moment that was simple. Something I held onto when I had nothing else. A moment where we were just us."
She looked at him for a long beat, then said, "Did you at least bring spoons?"
Without a word, Oliver dipped back into the bag and retrieved two mismatched, clearly borrowed metal spoons.
She gave him a look.
"Diggle said I should've brought napkins, too," he added.
"Oh, so your bodyguard's in on this?" she asked, stepping aside finally and motioning him in with a sweep of her arm. "Should I expect him to rappel down the fire escape with whipped cream?"
Oliver smirked. "He's across the street. I think he's pretending not to be watching, but he totally is."
As Oliver stepped inside, Diggle—true to form—remained leaning casually against the SUV, watching the entrance with that ever-neutral expression. A small smirk tugged at his lips, though, before he muttered to himself.
"Smooth, Queen. Real smooth."
—
Inside Laurel's Apartment – Ten Minutes Later
They sat side-by-side on the worn but comfortable couch, legs crossed, a muted true-crime docu-series playing in the background for ambiance. Neither was really watching it.
"Okay," Laurel said, pointing her spoon at him accusingly. "If you eat just the cookie chunks and leave me with plain vanilla again, I swear to God—"
"—you'll kick me out," Oliver finished, mouth full of mint chocolate chip. "I remember. That threat is very vivid."
She rolled her eyes. "You did it all the time in college. I'd open a pint and it would look full, but it was just the ice cream, no toppings. Sociopath behavior."
Oliver chuckled. "I was young. Reckless. Hungry."
"You're still hungry," she muttered, stabbing her spoon into her pint.
There was a pause, warm and laced with memory.
Oliver looked at her sideways. "You know, I thought you'd slam the door in my face."
"I considered it," she admitted, licking her spoon. "But then I saw the ice cream and figured… you know. Civilized hostage situation."
He nodded slowly. "Well, for what it's worth… thanks."
"For the ice cream?"
"For not slamming the door. For not being done with me. Not yet."
Laurel didn't respond right away. Instead, she rested her spoon in the tub and looked at him, really looked at him—at the man who had changed so much, and somehow, still had that same boy behind his eyes.
"You don't get to just show up and fix things with mint chocolate chip, Oliver," she said, voice soft but firm.
"I know," he said.
"But it's a start," she added.
He smiled.
"Next time," she said, "bring napkins. And wine."
"I can do that," he said.
Outside, across the street, Diggle's phone buzzed. He glanced at the message, saw all clear, and smiled to himself.
"Step one," he muttered, pushing off from the SUV, "done."
—
Still Inside Laurel's Apartment – Later That Night
The ice cream was half-melted now, a gooey mess of cookie dough and mint chocolate chip sitting forgotten on the coffee table. The documentary on the television had devolved into white noise—something about a spurned lover and a missing alibi. Neither of them was really listening. The room hummed with the kind of silence that knew too much.
Oliver leaned back against the couch, head tilted toward the ceiling. His voice came out low, almost like he was confessing to the air.
"I don't think I can do it."
Laurel turned toward him, legs curled under her. "Do what?"
He dropped his head to glance at her. "Work at Queen Consolidated. Sit in a corner office and pretend I'm still the golden boy she remembers. My mom—she doesn't get it. I told her no, and the way she looked at me…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "It was like I'd failed some test I didn't know I was still taking."
"She tried to put you behind a desk already?" Laurel asked, raising an eyebrow.
"She didn't even wait until the funeral was over," Oliver said, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "She's all about appearances now. Investors. Board members. Wants me in a suit, not in leathers."
"You don't strike me as the business casual type these days," Laurel said, eyes narrowing just a little as she studied him. "Not unless 'business' now includes knife-throwing and brooding in the dark."
He chuckled once, dry and amused. "I used to be good at pretending. At being who they wanted."
"Yeah. Emphasis on used to," Laurel said, and then, softer, "You're not that guy anymore, Oliver."
He looked at her, something unreadable in his expression. "Is that a good thing?"
She hesitated, then said, "Depends on the day."
There was a beat. Then she leaned forward, scooping another bite of the half-liquid ice cream and pointing the spoon at him.
"My dad still hates you, by the way."
Oliver's shoulders tensed, but he didn't flinch. "He should."
"No," she said, more seriously now. "He blames himself more than you think."
He turned to look at her fully, frowning.
"He was the one who told Sara she should see the world," Laurel continued. "She said she was going on a trip with friends, and he thought it would be good for her. If he'd known she was sneaking onto that yacht with you—"
"She wasn't supposed to be there," Oliver murmured, almost to himself.
"Well, she was," Laurel said. "And when we got the call… when they told us the Coast Guard had given up… he fell apart."
Oliver's jaw clenched.
"He started drinking," she said flatly. "A lot. Like, pass-out-in-the-kitchen-floor levels. Bar fights. Disciplinary hearings. He almost lost his badge—twice. Got clean eventually, but it took a year, and every time he looked at me, it was like he saw her. Like he saw the mistake."
Oliver sat still, absorbing it. "I didn't know."
"You wouldn't have," she said, her voice softer now. "You were gone."
Oliver looked down, hands resting loosely between his knees. "I'm sorry. For everything."
"So am I," Laurel said. "Especially for the things I said when you came to my office. About how it should've been you instead of her."
His eyes flicked to hers, and she saw the pain there, quiet and sharp.
"I meant it," she said anyway, holding his gaze. "Back then."
He nodded. "I know."
"I hated you," she admitted, her voice low and fierce. "For so long. For surviving when she didn't. For everything we lost because of you."
"I deserved that," he said.
"But then…" She paused, the air thick between them. "I started thinking about what five years on an island would actually do to someone. What it did to you. You didn't just survive, Ollie. You came back from hell. That… that changes a person."
He blinked, and there was a tremble in the breath he let out.
"You didn't come back to ruin our lives," she said. "You came back after having yours destroyed."
For a second, he couldn't speak. Then he managed, quietly, "Thank you. For saying that."
"Don't make me regret it," she replied, a wry smile touching her lips.
"I wouldn't dream of it," he said, and there was that signature smirk—the one that used to get him out of parking tickets and into too many hearts.
Laurel raised an eyebrow. "There's that smug billionaire face again."
"Better than the haunted vigilante one," he muttered, leaning back into the cushions.
She smirked. "Debatable."
Oliver tilted his head. "You're not exactly sunshine and rainbows yourself, Counselor."
"Oh please," she said, scoffing. "I'm a delight."
"You're a menace," he countered.
"Only in courtrooms."
He gave her a look. "You threw a shoe at me once."
Laurel shrugged. "You deserved it. You called me 'Hot Lance' in front of my professor."
"In my defense," Oliver said, holding up a hand, "you were very hot, and I was very high."
She laughed—genuinely—and for a moment, it broke the tension like a crack of light through fog.
Then came the silence again. Softer, less sharp.
After a moment, Laurel turned her head toward him.
"You keep trying to prove you're someone else now," she said. "But the question is—do you believe it?"
He didn't answer right away.
"I don't know who I am anymore," he admitted. "Not Oliver Queen. Not the guy from the island. And definitely not someone who belongs in a boardroom."
She reached out, placing a hand over his.
"Maybe you're someone who's still figuring it out. And that's okay."
His thumb brushed hers, barely a whisper of contact.
Outside, down on the street, Diggle leaned back against the SUV, arms folded, his silhouette patient and steady.
He glanced at his watch, muttered, "Step two… still in progress," and shook his head with a small, knowing smile.
—
The TV kept talking, but the words had blurred into a slurry of indistinct narration. Laurel barely noticed when the ice cream finally gave up the ghost, melting completely over the sides of the bowl. She didn't care. The night had spiraled somewhere between heavy confessions and hesitant reconciliations, and now the quiet felt oddly comfortable—like old furniture they weren't quite ready to throw away.
Oliver sat on the edge of the couch cushion, elbows on his knees, head tilted slightly toward her.
"I don't know who I'm supposed to be anymore," he said.
Laurel tucked her legs up, arm draped over the back of the couch as she studied him. "That's a hell of a thing to admit, considering the guy I knew always thought he had all the answers."
"That guy wore flip-flops to formal dinners and thought brunch was a personality trait."
She smirked. "You forgot 'called his yacht The Queen's Gambit without a hint of irony.'"
"I was twenty-two. Irony was for poor people."
Laurel laughed, despite herself. "God, you were such a tool."
Oliver glanced at her, a faint grin playing at the corner of his mouth. "Was?"
"You're marginally better now," she allowed. "But don't let it go to your head."
He gave her a look—half smirk, half dare—and leaned just a little closer.
And then he froze.
Eyes narrowed. Head tilted like a hunting dog. Every line of his body went still—prey still—except the hand that instinctively reached for her wrist.
"Get down," he whispered.
Laurel blinked. "What—?"
That's when the first thud hit the front door. It wasn't a knock. It was a warning shot. Something solid slamming into wood with unnatural force.
Oliver didn't wait for her to process it.
He grabbed her by the arm and yanked her off the couch just as the lock shattered. The door didn't open—it exploded inward in a hail of splinters and steel as three figures in black rushed inside.
Gunfire blasted through the apartment.
Laurel screamed, ducking behind the couch as Oliver grabbed the nearest thing he could reach—a weighted butter knife from the table—and hurled it.
It struck the lead gunman in the forearm with enough force to make him drop his pistol. Oliver was already moving, crossing the room in two strides, using the overturned coffee table as cover. He slammed into the guy mid-recovery, elbowed him in the throat, then spun and used his own arm to fling him into the wall.
Laurel watched, stunned, as the man hit the ground and didn't get up.
"What the hell?!" she gasped.
"Stay down," Oliver barked, not looking at her.
A second assailant opened fire from the hallway. Bullets chewed into the drywall as Oliver dove, rolled, and swept the guy's legs out from under him with a kitchen chair. He kicked the gun out of his hand, grabbed it mid-air, and turned it toward the third—
Too late.
A flash of silver—a throwing knife—whizzed through the air and embedded in the wall inches from Oliver's head.
She walked through the broken doorway like a ghost out of a nightmare.
White hair. White leather. Calm eyes full of steel. Her movement was poetry dipped in poison.
Oliver narrowed his eyes. He didn't know her name, but he knew a professional when he saw one.
She smiled faintly.
"Well," she said, voice smooth and precise. "That wasn't very civilian of you."
"You break into people's homes often?" Oliver shot back, gun steady in his grip.
She tilted her head. "Only when the prosecutor in my employer's case becomes... inconvenient."
Laurel rose from behind the couch, breathing hard. "You're with the Triad."
"Very good," the woman said, eyes never leaving Oliver. "And you—" she studied him like a puzzle piece, "—you're interesting. I don't like interesting."
Diggle crashed through the stairwell door outside.
He didn't knock. He kicked the door off its hinges.
China White's gaze flicked toward the noise—just enough of a distraction.
Oliver moved.
He lunged, aiming a punch at her jaw, but she sidestepped, grabbing his wrist and twisting. He grunted, shoved her off with raw strength, and they clashed again—strike and counterstrike, fists and elbows, her knives flashing dangerously close.
"Little help here!" Oliver barked.
Diggle barreled through the threshold and tackled one of the recovering gunmen, slamming his head into the side of the door with a sickening crack.
"Thought this was just a quiet evening," Dig muttered, throwing a jab into another's gut and finishing him with a brutal knee to the ribs.
"Ice cream and bullets," Oliver snapped, ducking another blade.
"You've got weird date nights, man."
"I'm not—" He caught China White's arm mid-slash, "—on a date!"
She twisted and kneed him in the stomach.
"Liar," she said coolly.
Laurel scrambled for the fallen gun, hands shaking. She turned it on one of the downed Triad men as he started to rise—"Don't move!"—and to her own shock, he actually obeyed.
Oliver and China White were still going at it—spinning, blocking, neither giving ground. She was too skilled. Too fast.
Then Diggle appeared behind her.
She sensed it—barely.
She flipped backward, kicking Oliver away and launching a smoke pellet at their feet.
"Wait—!" Laurel shouted, coughing.
When the smoke cleared, she was gone.
Oliver stood panting, shoulders tense, blood dripping from a small cut on his temple.
Laurel stared at him. "What the hell was that?"
Diggle picked up a Triad pistol, checked the chamber. "Definitely not random."
"No," Oliver agreed, still scanning the shadows. "They were here for you."
Laurel blinked, her voice suddenly very small. "Because of the Martin Somers case?"
"Looks like someone didn't like the idea of you putting him away," Diggle said grimly. "This wasn't a warning."
"This was an execution attempt," Oliver muttered.
Laurel looked at him—really looked—and saw the man who'd just disarmed two attackers, dodged a knife, and fought off a trained assassin like he'd done it a hundred times before.
"You're not just a rich guy who got marooned on an island," she said quietly.
Oliver met her eyes. "No. I'm not."
And for once, he didn't lie.
But he didn't explain either.
Because the truth wasn't safe.
Not yet.
Diggle gave him a knowing look. "I'll call this in. Anonymous tip. Triad hit gone sideways."
Oliver nodded, then turned back to Laurel.
"You're not safe here."
Laurel frowned. "They're not going to scare me into dropping the case."
"They're not trying to scare you," he said. "They're trying to bury you."
She opened her mouth to argue—then closed it again.
Finally, she said, "Then what now?"
Oliver glanced at Diggle. "She stays with me."
Diggle arched a brow. "You sure about that?"
"No," Oliver said. "But I'm not letting her die."
Laurel stared at him.
And for the first time since the Gambit sank, she wasn't sure who this man was.
But she was starting to believe in him.
Even if she didn't understand him.
Yet.
—
Laurel's Apartment – Minutes Later
The sirens weren't approaching anymore. They were already here—howling wolves surrounding the kill site, red-and-blue strobes flashing through every shattered pane of glass like hell's own paparazzi.
Oliver stood in the jagged doorway, posture coiled, a shadow silhouetted by chaos. Beside him, Diggle moved with purpose, his voice low and clipped into the burner phone as he relayed details to whoever still picked up for him at ARGUS.
Laurel sat hunched on the edge of her couch—what was left of it—clutching a blanket around her shoulders that some overzealous EMT had draped over her earlier. Her face was pale, eyes haunted. The adrenaline was ebbing, and the reality was creeping in like cold fog: she'd almost died tonight. Not metaphorically. Not "I got a scary phone call." Actual assassins. Actual bullets. Actual blood.
She was shaking.
Then came the door—slamming open like a hammer blow.
"Lance! Police!"
Detective Quentin Lance barreled in, coat flaring behind him, eyes already scanning for his daughter like a hawk in a hurricane. Two uniformed officers followed close, pistols drawn, though clearly several steps behind Lance's emotional storm.
"Laurel!" he barked, voice already breaking as he spotted her. He crossed the room in three strides and dropped to one knee beside her. "Are you—God, are you hurt? Baby, are you—"
"I'm fine," she said automatically.
He ignored that. His hands hovered like he was afraid touching her might break her. "Did they touch you? Did they—?"
"Dad," Laurel said, firmer now. "I'm fine."
The way she said it forced him to finally stop. He exhaled roughly, standing up and turning his glare toward the rest of the room—toward the wreckage and the witnesses.
That's when he saw Diggle.
"You," Lance said, stabbing a finger at him like an accusation. "You're the hired muscle. Private security, right? What, you guarding every socialite with a stalker problem now?"
Diggle didn't flinch. Arms crossed, calm as ever.
"Freelance security," he corrected. "Name's John Diggle."
"Well, John Diggle, you got here damn fast. And judging by the mess, you probably saved my daughter's life."
"I didn't do it alone," Diggle said, gesturing over his shoulder.
And there he was.
Oliver Queen.
Leaning against the wall like he hadn't just fought off a Triad death squad with a steak knife and sarcasm.
Lance turned slowly. The recognition hit first. Then the anger. Then the disdain.
He stepped forward, his voice dropping low and dangerous.
"You."
"Hi, Detective," Oliver said, voice flat. "Nice to see you too."
"You need to stay the hell away from my daughter."
Oliver's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "You've always been so welcoming."
"Don't test me, Queen. One daughter's already dead because of you. I'm not burying another."
The slap of those words echoed.
Even Diggle looked like he'd caught a punch to the gut.
Laurel shot to her feet, blanket falling to the floor.
"Excuse me?"
Lance didn't back down. "Laurel—"
"No, you do not get to blame him for this," she snapped. "You think Oliver caused this? That woman didn't show up with a vendetta against his haircut. She was here for me, Dad. Me. Because I'm prosecuting Martin Somers. Because I'm trying to do the right thing."
She stalked toward him, hands shaking again—but this time with fury, not fear.
"You wanna talk about danger? Let's talk about the fact that two Triad soldiers and a freaking assassin got into my apartment tonight while I was watching a rerun and eating Rocky Road! Where were your 'around-the-clock' security guys then, huh?"
Lance's jaw worked.
"They were found two blocks away. Dead. Execution-style. Triads got to them first."
The words hung like smoke in a burned-out building.
Laurel stared at him, the fight draining out of her.
"Right," she whispered. "Of course they did."
She turned away, wrapping her arms around herself again.
Oliver watched quietly, jaw clenched. But he didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
Laurel's next words were quiet, but razor sharp.
"Guess it's a good thing Oliver was here then, huh?"
Lance didn't reply. Couldn't.
He turned to the uniforms instead.
"Clear the rest of the apartment. Get forensics in here. I want full sweeps—DNA, footprints, fibers, the works. And canvas the building. Somebody had to have seen something."
He paused just long enough to shoot Oliver one more glare—sharp enough to peel paint.
Then he was gone.
—
Outside the Building – Ten Minutes Later
The city was cool and damp, the streets wet with recent rain and flashing lights.
Diggle walked beside Oliver, both of them silent as they passed rows of squad cars and officers scribbling in notebooks.
Finally, Diggle said, "I've seen people do crazy things in combat. Had a guy once in Kandahar knock out an insurgent with a prosthetic leg. Another used a spoon to defuse an IED."
Oliver arched a brow. "Sounds like a fun unit."
"But I've never seen someone stop a gunman from pulling the trigger... with a butter knife. From across the room."
Oliver shrugged. "It was a very motivated butter knife."
Diggle gave him a long side-eye. "You've trained. Like, real training. You moved like a ghost. Fast, clean, efficient. That's military or... something close."
Oliver smirked faintly. "Just a rich kid with good instincts."
"Uh-huh. And I'm Beyoncé."
They reached the car.
Diggle leaned against the roof, arms folded again.
"You've seen real violence before," he said, tone gentler now. "Not just at clubs when someone spills your drink. This... this is something you've done before."
Oliver didn't reply.
Didn't deny it.
Didn't need to.
Diggle exhaled and nodded once.
"Alright. You're not gonna tell me. Not yet."
"Nope."
"But you saved Laurel's life tonight. That counts for something."
Oliver's voice was quiet. "It counts for everything."
A pause passed between them.
Then—
"Seriously though," Diggle muttered, "a butter knife?"
"It was a tactical decision," Oliver said, feigning solemnity.
"A tactical decision made in a kitchen."
"I weaponize my brunchware."
From the car, Laurel leaned out the back window, one eyebrow arched. "Are you two bonding over kitchen utensils right now?"
"Don't ruin this for us," Oliver called back.
Diggle grinned. "She's got good ears. I like her."
Oliver gave a tired smile. "She's always been... complicated."
They climbed into the car, the doors slamming shut behind them.
As the vehicle pulled away from the chaos—sirens fading in the distance and crime scene tape whipping in their rearview—the city loomed ahead.
Dark. Heavy. Broken.
But for now?
Laurel was safe.
And that was enough.
---
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