The always-cheerful Tommy looked like a wilted eggplant this time—drooping shoulders, listless eyes, his energy completely drained. He barely managed a weak, "Hey, Thea… been waiting long?"
Thea blinked at the sight of him—sunglasses on, leaning heavily on a cane. What happened to you? she thought. Are you cosplaying Daredevil? Wrong franchise, buddy. Though… you do have the same long face.
Just a few days ago, when she'd met with Laurel, Tommy had been full of life. Three days later, he looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a truck. Did the timeline shift again? she wondered. Did my little butterfly effect actually blind him?
She hesitated, not sure whether to offer him a seat or call a doctor. "Your eyes…?"
"Oh, it's nothing, really. Just bumped into something." Tommy took off his sunglasses to prove he wasn't blind—then hastily put them back on.
One look at the bruises around his eyes, and Thea nearly spat out her coffee. His left eye was clearly blackened, the right swollen. Laurel hit him? Seriously? Domestic violence exists in this universe too?
"You two had a fight?" she asked carefully.
"Fight? No, no, it's… uh—" Tommy froze mid-sentence, then blurted, "My dad hired some master to train me! You know, so I can protect Laurel!"
His instinct for secrecy was decent; no way could he admit that "the mysterious master" was his own father.
But Thea wasn't buying it. Star City was the D.C. world's tutorial zone—there were only a handful of true martial experts. One mysterious Lady Shiva was enough of a surprise; what were the odds of another?
So Malcolm's training him now, she realized, her thoughts tightening. The story was veering further off the rails. Should she be glad or worried? Thea wasn't sure anymore. She decided to drop it and get to business.
When Tommy heard she just needed him to call a few media outlets, he relaxed instantly. Finally, something I'm good at. Years of rich-kid parties had built him a long list of contacts. Whether or not they liked him was irrelevant—faces were familiar, favors could be traded. A few quick calls later, several news networks agreed to attend.
Thea didn't make a big deal out of it. Between them—whatever they were, siblings or old friends—there was no need for formal thanks.
But watching Tommy sway in his seat like a metronome, she decided enough was enough. "Go home and rest. Before you faceplant here and people think I pushed you for insurance money."
"Need me to drive you back?" she offered, awkwardly avoiding any titles—"brother" didn't feel right, and "friend" sounded off.
"Nah, I got it."
Tommy wobbled to the door. Customers and staff alike moved aside like parting seas, terrified he'd topple over on their watch. A kind waiter even opened the door for him, smiling nervously: Please, sir, just leave in one piece.
But after taking two steps outside, Tommy suddenly turned back. Thea groaned inwardly as the entire café tensed up again.
"Thea," he whispered conspiratorially, "you need to be careful. There's a dark force rising in Star City. My father was attacked by them—badly hurt."
Thea raised an eyebrow. "He got hurt again?"
Tommy caught on to that again and frowned. "Again? Wait, you mean he—never mind. Uh, I mean—yeah. Uncle Merlyn's been injured. Real serious."
"Where?" she asked, pretending not to already know.
"Stab wound, right under the ribs. Deep—at least ten centimeters."
Thea nearly burst out laughing. That old liar! she thought. That's the exact spot I stabbed him! So the great Malcolm Merlyn turned my hit into some grand conspiracy plot? Incredible.
She could already imagine it: a fabricated "shadow organization" rising from the underworld, the noble father fending them off heroically—all to patch things up with his son. You've got to hand it to him, she admitted. That's next-level storytelling.
What she didn't know was that Malcolm hadn't planned it at all. He was improvising. One lie had forced another, and now he was stuck weaving an ever-growing web.
Despite Tommy's insistence that he could manage, Thea still drove him home. She needed to see Malcolm anyway—and settle this ridiculous mess once and for all.
⸻
Malcolm, for his part, was sitting at home with his eyes closed, meditating. Between training Thea and now Tommy, he hadn't had a moment's rest. Forget the Glades extermination project—parenting alone was enough to drain him.
"Hey, Uncle Merlyn! I heard you were hurt! How bad is it? I came to check on you!"
That bright, familiar voice jolted him upright. Thea?!
He opened his eyes—and immediately knew he was in trouble. One look at the teasing smirk on her face told him she'd figured everything out. The knife wound had given him away; she now knew "Dark Archer" and "Malcolm Merlyn" were the same man.
Under other circumstances, he wouldn't have cared. The mask was only for convenience. But then he saw Tommy standing beside her—and realized the jig was up. The "dark forces" story had just met its author.
Forcing a weak laugh, he said, "Thea, long time no see. Thanks for checking in. I'm… much better now."
Thea tilted her chin toward Tommy, giving Malcolm a meaningful look. Well? Go on, tell him the truth. The stage is set.
But Malcolm's heart clenched. He'd thought about this moment countless times. Tommy adored his late mother, cherished her memory. If he learned his father had cheated, that bond would shatter forever. Malcolm couldn't risk it—not yet.
So when Thea's eyes urged him to speak, he gave a barely perceptible shake of the head. Not now.
Thea sighed inwardly. She wanted to call him out, but forcing the issue would only make things worse—and she didn't want to look like she was stirring trouble over inheritance.
She changed tack, voice dripping with mock curiosity. "So, I hear you were injured by some mysterious 'dark organization.' Care to elaborate?"
"Yeah, Father," Tommy chimed in helpfully. "You said it was some woman who attacked you. What exactly happened?"
"Oh? A woman, was it?" Thea added, eyes rolling. "Do tell, Uncle Merlyn."
For perhaps the first time in his life, Malcolm Merlyn was completely at a loss. Pinned between his sharp-tongued daughter and his earnest son, caught in a web of his own lies, he could neither go forward nor retreat.
This… might actually be worse than getting stabbed, he thought miserably.