QUEEN MANOR — FOYER — NIGHT
Oliver descended the grand staircase with his characteristic silent precision, each step deliberate and controlled. His fingers worked the zipper of his dark leather jacket as he reached the marble foyer, jaw set in that familiar line of determination that had become his default expression since returning from the island. His phone buzzed insistently against his chest—another message from Diggle, no doubt wondering where the hell he was.
The sound of a high-performance engine purring to life outside made him pause, his head tilting slightly as headlights swept across the frosted glass panes of the front door. A car door slammed with the kind of expensive thunk that only came from German engineering.
"Oh, wonderful," Oliver muttered under his breath, recognizing the sound of Tommy's latest toy before his friend even walked through the door.
The front door swung open without so much as a knock, and Tommy Merlyn strode in like he was walking onto a photo shoot, designer jacket perfectly fitted, hair artfully tousled by the night air. He flipped his keys in that casual way that screamed 'look how effortlessly cool I am' and called out with his trademark grin.
"Oliver! Please tell me you're not about to disappear into the night again like some kind of brooding—" Tommy stopped mid-sentence, his eyes falling on the figure leaning against the banister with the casual confidence of someone who belonged there.
Delphini stood with her arms crossed, one shoulder against the ornate railing, watching Tommy with the kind of steady, unblinking stare that made most people shift uncomfortably. Her dark hair fell in perfect waves around her shoulders, and there was something in her expression—amused, calculating, slightly predatory—that made it clear she was already three steps ahead of whatever Tommy was about to say.
Tommy blinked, his smooth entrance momentarily derailed. "Well. Hi there. I... don't think we've met?" He recovered quickly, flashing that million-dollar smile that had gotten him out of more trouble than it had gotten him into. "Tommy Merlyn. And you are...?"
Oliver didn't even slow down as he moved toward the door, his tone flat and matter-of-fact. "Tommy, Delphini. Delphini, Tommy Merlyn. She's my cousin. Harry's sister. She was kidnapped as a baby, thought to be dead, recently found alive and apparently enjoys making people uncomfortable just by existing." He paused, hand on the door handle. "Tommy will try to charm you. I wouldn't recommend letting him."
Delphini's lips curved into the barest hint of a smile, her voice carrying that distinct deadpan quality that made it impossible to tell if she was joking or serious. "Noted. Though I have to say, the warning feels somewhat redundant."
Tommy's grin widened, undeterred. "Ouch. I haven't even started charming yet and I'm already getting shot down. That's got to be some kind of record." He straightened his jacket with exaggerated confidence. "Guess I'll just have to work harder then, won't I?"
"Good luck with that," Oliver said dryly, already pulling the door open. The cool night air swept into the foyer, carrying with it the scent of rain and the promise of whatever emergency was currently demanding his attention.
Tommy's expression shifted, the playful facade dropping just enough to reveal genuine concern. "Hey, whoa—hold up there, man. Where's the fire? I just picked up this beautiful new Maserati. Thought we could take it for a spin, you know? Open road, wind in our hair—well, in my hair, anyway. You're working with significantly less material these days."
Oliver paused in the doorway, his shoulders tense. For a moment, it looked like he might actually explain where he was going, might let Tommy in on even the smallest piece of his double life. Instead, he just shook his head, stepping out into the night.
"Something came up. Rain check."
Tommy's face fell slightly, watching as Oliver disappeared into the darkness like he was being swallowed by it. "You know, Ollie... you always do this. Ever since you got back, it's like you're here but you're not really here. Like you're always somewhere else in your head."
From the living room, Thea's voice rang out with all the subtlety of a foghorn: "Maybe because he actually has a life now, Tommy! Some of us can't spend all our time shopping for cars and hair products!"
Tommy turned toward the sound of her voice, just in time to see Thea saunter into the foyer with that particular brand of Queen family confidence that made it clear she owned every room she entered. She was wearing an oversized sweater that probably cost more than most people's rent, her hair pulled back in a deliberately messy bun that had taken twenty minutes to perfect.
Delphini pushed off from the banister, falling into step beside her cousin with the fluid grace of a predator. Together, they closed in on Tommy like wolves who had just spotted wounded prey.
"Now," Thea said, eyeing him up and down with the kind of clinical assessment usually reserved for livestock auctions, "you don't usually just show up here without a bottle of twenty-year-old scotch and a terrible idea that involves either property damage or public nudity. So what gives? You look like someone just told you that hair gel causes cancer."
Tommy stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, suddenly feeling like he was being interrogated by a tag team of prosecutors. "It's nothing. Just..." He hesitated, glancing between their expectant faces. "There's this woman. Someone I... really care about. But I don't think just walking up to her and saying 'Hey, I'm crazy about you' is... the right move."
Thea's eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline. "Wait. Stop. Hold everything." She turned to Delphini with exaggerated shock. "Tommy Merlyn. Speechless over a girl. Mark the calendar, Delphini—this is actual history in the making."
Delphini tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. "Already noted. Though I have to say, I find it more interesting that he's actually self-aware enough to realize his usual approach might not work."
"Hey, I'm standing right here," Tommy protested, though he was smiling despite himself.
"We're aware," Thea said sweetly. "We're just enjoying the rare sight of you being vulnerable. It's like seeing a unicorn, but with better hair."
Tommy groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. "You two are really enjoying this, aren't you?"
"Oh, immensely," Thea said without missing a beat. Then, her expression softening just a fraction, she added: "Look, Tommy. If you really like her—and I mean really like her, not just 'I want to see her naked' like her—you've got to show her that you care about what she cares about. Find out what she's passionate about and... be interested in it. Be genuine about it. Not Tommy Merlyn interested, where you're just trying to get into her pants, but actual human being interested."
Tommy blinked at her, processing this wisdom like it was written in ancient Greek. "That's... actually not a terrible idea. Who are you and what have you done with Speedy?"
"I contain multitudes," Thea said with a theatrical flourish. "You can thank me later when she's all over you."
Delphini chimed in, her tone dry but not unkind: "You may also want to dial down the puppy-dog eyes, though. Not everyone finds desperate appealing."
"I don't do puppy-dog eyes," Tommy protested.
Both girls stared at him.
"Okay, I might do puppy-dog eyes," he admitted with a sheepish grin. "But they're very sophisticated puppy-dog eyes."
"Right," Delphini said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because nothing says 'sophisticated' like looking like you're about to whimper and roll over for treats."
Tommy let out a genuine laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. "Yeah, yeah. I get it. Don't try too hard. But do try. Be genuine. Show interest in her interests. Got it." He paused, looking between them. "You know, for a pair of teenagers, you're surprisingly wise about this stuff."
"We're not teenagers," Thea said indignantly. "We're young adults with expensive educations and access to premium cable. There's a difference."
"My apologies," Tommy said with mock solemnity. "Young adults with expensive educations and access to premium cable."
He turned to Thea, his expression growing more serious. "Seriously though, Speedy. Thanks. You might've just saved me from making a complete idiot of myself. Again."
Thea mock-saluted him with the kind of precision that would have made a drill sergeant proud. "Happy to help. Just... don't screw it up, okay? Some of us have reputations to maintain."
Tommy gave Delphini a parting grin, the kind that was all charm and no expectation. "Pleasure meeting you, cousin. You've got a sharp tongue and an even sharper wit. I respect that in a person."
Delphini gave him a polite little nod, her voice carrying just a hint of warmth beneath the sarcasm. "Good luck, Mr. Merlyn. Try not to trip over your own ego on the way out."
Tommy just laughed, shaking his head as he backed toward the door. "You know what? I think I'm going to like having you around. This family needed someone who could keep up with the verbal sparring."
"Oh, I don't keep up," Delphini said with a smile that was all teeth. "I lead."
Tommy was still chuckling as he slipped back outside, the sound of the Maserati's engine purring to life a moment later. The headlights swept across the windows as he pulled away, leaving the foyer quiet except for the distant hum of the house's various systems.
Thea leaned against the banister next to Delphini, her smirk widening. "Poor guy doesn't stand a chance, does he?"
Delphini's smile turned genuinely fond, though it retained its edge. "No. But at least he'll go down trying. And there's something to be said for that."
Thea chuckled, shaking her head. "You know what? He's going to fit right in with this family. We specialize in hopeless causes and dramatic gestures."
"Speak for yourself," Delphini said mildly. "I prefer calculated risks and inevitable victories."
"Same difference," Thea said with a grin. "Come on, let's go raid the kitchen. All this relationship counseling has made me hungry."
The two cousins shared a small, conspiratorial smile before retreating back into the manor, their footsteps echoing on the marble as they disappeared into the depths of the house. The night settled back into its usual quiet rhythm, though neither of them fooled themselves into thinking the peace would last for long.
After all, this was the Queen family. Drama had a way of finding them, whether they invited it or not.
—
STARLING GENERAL HOSPITAL — NIGHT
The automatic doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss as Oliver strode into the emergency wing, his dark leather jacket still zipped to his throat despite the hospital's stifling warmth. His emerald eyes swept the sterile corridor with practiced efficiency, cataloging exits, security cameras, and potential threats with the automatic paranoia that had kept him alive for five years on a hellish island. The familiar cocktail of antiseptic, industrial coffee, and human desperation hung heavy in the recycled air.
He spotted Diggle immediately—a mountain of controlled tension standing near the nurse's station, arms folded across his broad chest, jaw set in that familiar line that meant he was either annoyed or concerned. Possibly both.
But Diggle wasn't alone.
Beside him stood Harry, and Oliver felt his step falter slightly at the sight of his cousin. Harry leaned against the counter with the kind of casual elegance that made expensive suits look effortless, his dark curls artfully disheveled as if he'd just run his fingers through them. His emerald eyes—so similar to Oliver's own, yet somehow warmer, more alive—held that perpetual glint of mischief that suggested he knew something everyone else didn't.
Flanking Harry were his two constant companions, and Oliver couldn't help but notice the way they positioned themselves. Not beside him, but with him, like pieces of a puzzle that had found their perfect fit.
Daphne stood at his right shoulder, her platinum blonde hair catching the harsh fluorescent lights and somehow making them look flattering. She wore a fitted black coat that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary, and her blue eyes held that particular brand of cool assessment that made it clear she was always thinking three moves ahead. Her hand rested lightly on Harry's arm, a gesture that looked casual but spoke of intimate familiarity.
Susan occupied the space to his left, her auburn hair falling in waves around her shoulders, her green eyes warm but alert. She adjusted her burgundy scarf with nervous fingers, though her posture remained poised and confident. When she caught Oliver's eye, she offered him a polite nod, but her attention quickly drifted back to Harry with the kind of soft focus that suggested deeper feelings.
Oliver came to a stop in front of them, his frown deepening as he took in the domestic tableau. There was something about the way the three of them stood together—comfortable, intimate, protective—that made his chest tight with an emotion he couldn't quite name.
"Dig," he said flatly, his voice carrying the kind of controlled tension that meant he was holding back a dozen questions. "What's going on? Where's Morgan?"
Diggle's jaw flexed almost imperceptibly, a tell Oliver had learned to read after months of working together. The man was built like a tank and had the emotional range of one, but Oliver had learned to spot the subtle signs of discomfort.
"Morgan's not here," Diggle said finally, his deep voice carefully neutral.
Oliver's eyes narrowed, that familiar green fire sparking to life. "What do you mean he's not here? You said there was a situation. You said—"
"I lied," Diggle cut in smoothly, though his voice remained calm and low, pitched to keep Oliver from making a scene in the middle of a hospital corridor.
Oliver blinked once, slowly, his expression tightening like a bowstring as he took half a step closer to Diggle. The temperature in the hallway seemed to drop several degrees.
"You lied," Oliver repeated, his voice deadly quiet. "You dragged me away from—"
"Oh, this is fascinating," Harry interrupted with that crisp British accent that somehow made everything sound like a commentary on a particularly amusing play. "The mighty Oliver Queen, master of deception and professional brooder, getting his knickers in a twist over a little strategic misdirection."
Oliver's head snapped toward his cousin, green eyes blazing. "Harry—"
"What's the matter, cousin?" Harry continued, his emerald eyes dancing with mischief. "Feeling a bit manipulated? Welcome to how the rest of us feel when you disappear for hours without explanation, leaving cryptic messages about 'something coming up.'"
Daphne's lips curved into the barest hint of a smile, her fingers tightening almost imperceptibly on Harry's arm. "He does have a point," she said, her voice carrying that particular brand of upper-class British accent that made even insults sound like compliments. "You're not exactly forthcoming about your nocturnal activities."
Susan shifted slightly, her green eyes flicking between the cousins with obvious concern. "Perhaps we could discuss this somewhere more private?" she suggested gently, though her hand had found its way to Harry's other arm, a gesture that looked protective.
Before Oliver could respond, the sharp sound of approaching footsteps and urgent voices filled the corridor. A pair of paramedics burst through the double doors to the trauma wing, rolling a gurney down the hall at breakneck speed.
Stan Washington lay atop the stretcher, his dark skin pale and waxy under the harsh lights. Tubes and wires snaked around his body like technological ivy, and his torso was swathed in blood-streaked bandages that spoke of serious trauma. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and labored, each rise and fall of his chest a small victory against whatever was trying to claim him.
A woman hurried alongside the gurney, her sensible shoes clicking against the linoleum as she struggled to keep pace. Jana Washington clutched her purse to her chest with white-knuckled fingers, her dark eyes wet with tears that she refused to let fall. Despite her obvious distress, her expression was set with the kind of quiet determination that came from years of fighting battles that seemed impossible to win.
As the gurney passed their small group, Jana's eyes found Harry and she immediately veered toward him, her face lighting up with desperate gratitude.
"Mr. Potter," she said, her voice hoarse from hours of crying and worry. "I—thank you. Thank you so much for helping Stan. The doctors said the transfer and the specialist—Dr. Ramos flew in from Johns Hopkins just for him. They said he might actually wake up now. The surgery, the new treatment..." She swallowed hard, struggling to maintain her composure. "We couldn't afford it. Not on my salary. The insurance wouldn't cover experimental procedures, and you just... you made it happen."
Harry's trademark smirk softened into something genuinely warm as he shook his head, one hand emerging from his coat pocket to make a gentle, dismissive gesture. The movement was fluid and natural, and Oliver couldn't help but notice how Daphne's eyes followed it, how Susan's gaze lingered on the line of his jaw.
"No need to thank me, Mrs. Washington," Harry said, his voice losing its teasing edge and taking on a tone of genuine compassion. "If you really want to thank someone—" He glanced sideways at Oliver, his emerald eyes glinting with mischief for just a moment. "—you should thank Mr. Queen. He's the one paying the bill."
Oliver's eyes widened slightly, his carefully constructed mask of control slipping for just a heartbeat. "I'm—what?"
Jana followed Harry's gaze and immediately turned to Oliver, her face crumpling with overwhelming gratitude. She reached out and grasped his hand in both of hers, her grip surprisingly strong for someone who looked so fragile.
"Mr. Queen," she said, tears finally spilling over as she looked up at him with something approaching reverence. "Thank you. Truly. You have no idea what this means to my family. To me. Stan's been unconscious for three days, and the doctors at Metro General said there wasn't anything more they could do. But this new treatment, this specialist—you've given us hope. God bless you."
Oliver stood frozen, his lips parting slightly in surprise as he struggled to process what was happening. His green eyes darted to Harry, who was watching the exchange with the satisfied expression of someone who had just executed a particularly brilliant chess move.
"You're... you're welcome," Oliver managed, his voice softer than usual as he looked down at Jana's tear-stained face. Despite his confusion, he couldn't bring himself to correct her assumption. Not when she was looking at him like he'd just performed a miracle.
Jana gave his hand one more squeeze before hurrying after her husband's gurney, her heels clicking down the hall as she disappeared through another set of doors marked 'AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.'
The moment she was gone, Oliver's gaze snapped back to Harry, sharp and questioning. "What the hell was that?"
Harry's smile was pure innocence, the kind that probably got him out of trouble at expensive boarding schools. "Whatever do you mean, cousin?"
"Don't," Oliver said, his voice low and dangerous. "Don't play games with me, Harry. I know you. You arranged this whole thing, didn't you? The transfer, the specialist, the—"
"The payment authorization that went through an hour ago under your name?" Harry interrupted, his British accent making the words sound like a particularly delicious secret. "The one that your very efficient accounting department will process without question because it's exactly the kind of charitable gesture Oliver Queen would make?"
Daphne let out a soft laugh, the sound like champagne bubbles. "Oh, you should see your face right now," she said to Oliver, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement. "It's quite entertaining."
Susan bit her lower lip, trying to hide her own smile. "He's been planning this for hours," she admitted, shooting Harry a look that was equal parts exasperated and admiring. "The moment he heard about Stan's condition, he started making calls."
"Calls to whom?" Oliver demanded, though he was beginning to suspect he already knew the answer.
"Friends," Harry said vaguely, his hand moving to cover Daphne's fingers where they rested on his arm. "Acquaintances. People who owe me favors. It's amazing what you can accomplish when you know the right people."
Diggle finally spoke, his deep voice rumbling with what might have been amusement. "I figured you'd want to see this for yourself," he said to Oliver, his tone almost apologetic. "Didn't think Morgan was the story tonight."
Oliver stared at his bodyguard, pieces of the puzzle clicking into place. "You knew about this. You were in on it."
"The man's been working the night shift at Queen Consolidated for three years," Diggle said with a shrug. "Gets beaten half to death trying to stop a robbery, and the company insurance wants to transfer him to the cheapest facility they can find. Seemed like the kind of thing that might interest you."
"So you conspired with my cousin to—"
"To do what needed to be done," Harry interrupted smoothly. "Though I must say, your approach to vigilante justice is rather limited, isn't it? All that leather and arrows, when sometimes all you need is a well-placed phone call and a generous donation."
Oliver's jaw tightened. "This isn't a game, Harry."
"Isn't it?" Harry's emerald eyes gleamed with challenge. "You dress up in green leather and shoot people with arrows. I wear expensive suits and manipulate the system from the inside. We're both playing the same game, cousin. I'm just better at it."
"Harry," Susan said softly, her voice carrying a note of warning. Her fingers tightened on his arm, and Oliver couldn't help but notice the way Harry's expression immediately softened at her touch.
"You're right, darling," Harry said, his voice taking on that particular tone of affection that made it clear exactly how he felt about the redhead. "No need to be uncharitable. After all, Oliver's methods have their place. Sometimes you do need to put arrows in people."
Daphne shifted slightly, moving closer to Harry's side. "Though perhaps not in hospital corridors," she murmured, her blue eyes scanning the area with professional assessment. "Too many witnesses, not enough exit strategies."
The casual way she discussed violence made Oliver's eyes narrow. "What exactly do you three do when you're not manipulating my charitable donations?"
"Oh, this and that," Harry said airily. "Daphne's brilliant with numbers and strategy. Susan's got a gift for research and organization. And I have a talent for making things happen."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting tonight," Harry replied, his smile taking on a sharper edge. "Though I will say this—your little war on crime is about to get a lot more interesting."
Oliver took a step closer, his voice dropping to that dangerous whisper he usually reserved for interrogations. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Harry said, his own voice taking on a silky quality that somehow made him sound even more dangerous despite his casual posture, "that you're not the only one who's noticed that this city is drowning in corruption. And some of us prefer to fight fire with fire rather than... whatever it is you're doing."
Susan's hand moved to rest on Harry's chest, a gesture that was both intimate and calming. "What Harry means," she said, shooting him a look that was pure exasperation, "is that we're on the same side. We just have different methods."
"Different methods," Oliver repeated slowly. "Like identity theft and fraud?"
"Like strategic resource allocation and creative problem-solving," Daphne corrected with a smile that was all teeth. "Though I suppose from your perspective, it might look like theft and fraud."
Diggle cleared his throat, the sound rumbling through the tension like distant thunder. "Maybe we should take this conversation somewhere more private," he suggested, his eyes tracking the various hospital staff who were starting to notice their intense discussion.
Oliver looked around, suddenly aware that they were standing in the middle of a busy hospital corridor, having what amounted to a crime family strategy session. He straightened, his mask of civilized control sliding back into place.
"We're going to talk about this later," he said, his voice carrying the kind of quiet authority that made it clear this wasn't a request.
Harry's smirk widened, and he tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment. "Looking forward to it, cousin," he murmured, his British accent making the words sound like a promise and a threat all at once.
As if summoned by the mention of later conversations, Jana Washington appeared at the end of the corridor, her face radiant with hope for the first time in days.
"Mr. Queen!" she called out, hurrying toward them. "The doctors said the surgery went perfectly. Stan's responding to the treatment. He's going to wake up. He's going to be okay."
Oliver felt something tight in his chest loosen slightly, and for a moment, his carefully constructed facade cracked enough to let genuine emotion show through. "I'm glad to hear that, Mrs. Washington."
"I don't know how I can ever repay you," Jana said, tears streaming down her face. "You saved his life."
Oliver's eyes flicked to Harry, who was watching the exchange with that satisfied expression of someone who had just proven a point. "I'm just glad I could help," Oliver said finally, and he was surprised to realize he meant it.
After Jana disappeared back into the depths of the hospital, the small group stood in silence for a moment. Oliver straightened, his mind already spinning with questions and implications.
"This doesn't change anything," he said finally, though he wasn't sure who he was trying to convince.
"Doesn't it?" Harry asked, his emerald eyes dancing with mischief. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like the great Oliver Queen just discovered that maybe, just maybe, he doesn't have to do everything alone."
Susan smiled softly, her green eyes warm as she looked between the cousins. "It's nice when family helps each other, isn't it?"
Daphne's lips curved into a knowing smile as she watched Oliver's face. "Oh, this is going to be fun," she murmured, and something in her voice made Oliver realize that his carefully ordered world was about to become significantly more complicated.
And despite everything—despite the manipulation, the secrecy, and the growing realization that his cousin was far more dangerous than he'd ever imagined—Oliver found himself looking forward to it.
—
STARLING GENERAL HOSPITAL — PARKING GARAGE — NIGHT
The cold night air hit Oliver the moment he stepped into the parking garage, his boots echoing against the concrete as he strode toward his waiting motorcycle. His leather jacket creaked with each purposeful movement, but his mind was already elsewhere—spinning through everything he'd just seen and heard.
Behind him, footsteps followed: heavy and deliberate from Diggle; soft and synchronized from Harry, Daphne, and Susan.
They caught up with him as he reached his bike.
Diggle was the first to speak, his voice low and steady. "You did good in there."
Oliver didn't glance back. He pulled his helmet off the seat and stared at it for a moment.
"She thinks I saved her husband," he said quietly, his jaw tight.
"You didn't tell her otherwise," Diggle pointed out.
Oliver finally looked up at him, his green eyes sharp under the harsh garage lights.
"I don't walk away from people who need help, Dig," he said simply.
There was no defensiveness in his tone—just a quiet resolve.
Diggle's lips quirked faintly, though his eyes were as serious as ever. "Didn't think you would."
From behind them, Harry's rich British voice cut in, smooth and amused. "Ah, so that's the famous Oliver Queen moral compass I've heard so much about. Can't decide if it's endearing or infuriating."
Oliver turned fully now, fixing Harry with a look that could cut steel.
Harry, of course, only smiled.
"I don't care how clever you think you are," Oliver said evenly. "This city doesn't need more chaos. You play by my rules when you're in my city. You step out of line—"
Harry raised both hands in mock surrender, his smirk never wavering. "Relax, cousin. We're all on the same side, remember? You shoot arrows, I shoot spell. Different methods, same goal. We'll play nice."
Daphne arched a pale brow, stepping closer to Harry's side. "Define 'nice,'" she murmured under her breath.
Susan shot her a faintly reproachful look but said nothing.
Oliver shook his head, slipping his helmet on and pulling the visor halfway down.
"Good," he said, his voice clipped. Then he paused, glancing between the four of them.
"Because we're not done tonight."
That earned him a blink of surprise from Daphne and even a slight tilt of Harry's head, his grin sharpening into something more dangerous.
"The Royal Flush Gang hit Starling Trust Bank," Oliver continued, his voice dropping into that deadly calm tone Diggle had learned meant trouble was about to happen. "They left a cop in a coma. They don't get to walk away from that. Not in my city."
Diggle nodded once, his massive frame straightening. "You've got a plan?"
Oliver swung his leg over his bike, gripping the handlebars like they were an extension of himself. "We find them. We stop them. And we make sure they never hurt anyone again."
For the first time all night, Harry's cocky grin faded into something harder, colder.
"Well then," he said, his voice silky but with an edge of steel, "what are we waiting for?"
Susan tightened her scarf and exchanged a quick glance with Daphne, who simply smiled—sharp and eager.
Diggle looked around the small group, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "You sure about this?" he murmured to Oliver.
Oliver's gaze stayed fixed on the distant garage exit, his jaw set like stone.
"We're already in it," he said flatly. "Might as well make sure we do this the right way."
He gunned the engine, the roar of the bike filling the garage.
Harry clapped his hands once, bright and dangerous. "Oh, this is going to be fun."
As Oliver shot out of the garage into the dark streets of Starling City, Diggle followed close behind in the SUV. And trailing them—like a pack of wolves in designer clothing—Harry, Daphne, and Susan exchanged knowing looks before slipping into their own sleek black sedan, the night swallowing them as they fell in line behind Oliver.
Tonight, the Queen vigilante family was going to work. And the Royal Flush Gang's luck was about to run out.
---
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