Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Oliver had grown used to keeping secrets for the sake of survival. Some had been born from necessity, others from pain, and a handful—very few—because he wanted to surprise Felicity Smoak. Tonight was one of those.

The theater room of the Queen Mansion had been completed months ago, a project he started not long after she moved into his world in every way that mattered. He hadn’t told her. Not because he didn’t want to share it, but because he wanted the moment to mean something. He’d caught the gleam in her eye the first time she mentioned Avatar: The Last Airbender. Not just a casual “it’s a good show” but the kind of warmth in her voice that spoke to comfort, nostalgia, and safety. She’d said it once in passing, something about how she wanted to see his expression during the finale. Oliver had filed it away, the way he always did with the details that mattered most.

Now, six months after Slade Wilson, after the blood, the shadows, the broken bones and the city that still carried its scars, Oliver finally had a night where he could breathe. They both could.

“Okay,” Felicity said as Oliver guided her down the familiar hallways of the mansion with his hands gently covering her eyes. “You’ve been weirdly secretive all week, which, by the way, is either really sweet or really suspicious. I’m leaning suspicious.”

Oliver chuckled under his breath, the sound low and warm against her ear. “Just trust me.”

“I do.” The words came out easily, without hesitation. Still, she added, “But if this ends up being some training simulation where you want me to dodge arrows in heels again—”

“It’s not.” His lips curved at the memory of her complaining for two days about the blisters.

He stopped her in front of the heavy oak door, took his hands away, and watched.

Felicity blinked at the darkened room as it came alive with a low hum, the recessed lights dimming automatically to reveal a sleek, private theater. Plush recliners, a projection system, a screen that filled the wall.

Her gasp was pure Felicity—half delight, half disbelief. “You… Oliver, you—” She spun on her heel, her hair catching the faint glow of the lights, her eyes wide and shining. “You built me a theater?”

“I built us a theater,” Oliver corrected, though he couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips. “But tonight… yeah. For you.”

Her grin was immediate, playful, almost giddy. “Okay, but the million-dollar question—what are we watching?”

Oliver pressed a button, and the title card for Avatar: The Last Airbender lit up the screen.

For a moment, Felicity just stared. Her mouth dropped open before she clapped a hand over it, muffling the sharp intake of breath. Then she let out a laugh that was half incredulous and half overwhelmed. “We’re finally doing this?”

“Yeah,” he answered simply.

Something in her expression softened then, her smile dimming into something gentler, more vulnerable. She stepped close and kissed him, quick and light, like she couldn’t help it. “I love you.”

“I love you.” His voice was quiet, but steady.

They settled into the chairs, her curled against his side, legs folded up like she owned the space. Which, in a way, she did. Oliver let himself relax, the weight of the last six months easing off his shoulders as the first notes of the opening theme played.

Felicity kept sneaking glances at him, clearly more interested in his reaction than the show. He caught her once and arched a brow.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Her lips twitched. “Just… this is a big deal. I’ve been waiting to see how you’d react to this forever.”

Oliver smirked, eyes still on the screen. “You’ve been waiting to laugh at me.”

“Also true,” she admitted, her giggle soft in the dark.

They watched in silence for a while, the animated world unfolding before him—its nations, its war, its broken heroes. Oliver felt a strange kinship with it, though he didn’t say anything. Not yet. The parallels were too close. The boy who carried responsibility he never asked for, who lost so much but still tried to save everyone he could.

When the first episode ended, Felicity tilted her head toward him. “So?”

Oliver exhaled, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “I think I understand why you wanted me to watch this.”

Her eyes lit up again, brighter than the screen. “Good. Because we’re marathoning.”

“Felicity—”

“Nope. Don’t you dare pull the ‘brooding vigilante who doesn’t binge-watch cartoons’ card on me.” She nudged him with her elbow, playful and insistent. “Tonight we celebrate. My satellite is finally launching, our wedding invitations are officially mailed, and, oh right, the city hasn’t imploded in… what, two weeks? We deserve this.”

Oliver looked at her then, really looked. The way her eyes sparkled with mischief and determination. The way her hand found his, fingers tangling, grounding him in a way nothing else ever had.

She was right. They did deserve this.

XXX

By the time they reached the heart of Book One, Felicity was leaning fully against him, her legs curled across his lap as if she had always belonged there. Oliver barely noticed the passage of time, his focus caught between the flickering glow of the screen and the warmth of the woman pressed against him.

The scene shifted. A boy on the screen knelt, defiant in a crowded chamber of fire. His voice rang out—pleading, challenging—a son daring to speak against cruelty.

And then came the punishment. Fire lanced across Zuko’s face, his scream filling the theater’s silence.

Oliver stiffened.

The image lingered on the boy’s scar, the thing that would come to define him. Not just a mark, but a curse, a constant reminder of pain and failure.

Unbidden, Oliver’s hand lifted and brushed across his own chest, fingertips tracing the raised edges of the Mark etched into his skin. That brand wasn’t given by a father, but by something older, hungrier. The god-wolf Lykaon. A monster that had lived inside him, through him.

He remembered the blood, the rage that had burned hotter than any fire. He remembered losing himself—truly losing himself—the night Slade murdered his mother before his eyes. The Mark had broken loose then. The wolf had howled, and Oliver, Thea, and Roy had answered. They became the pack it craved, painted the streets in crimson as Lykaon’s will drowned out their own.

Felicity shifted slightly, her eyes flicking up from the screen to him. She didn’t miss the way his hand lingered over his chest, or the way his jaw had tightened. Quietly, gently, she curled closer and laid her hand over his, pressing it flat against his Mark.

“Hey,” she whispered. “Lykaon can’t take control of you anymore. We beat him, remember?”

Oliver swallowed hard. Beat him. The words felt like hope—but also like denial. Felicity didn’t know how often the memory haunted him. The screams. The blood. The animal inside that had relished every second of it.

And the silence that followed. Lykaon had been quiet since the bond. Too quiet.

He closed his eyes, Felicity’s warmth anchoring him as her words drew him back.

“Do you?” she pressed, her voice firmer now. “Do you remember how we beat him?”

His throat tightened. “You. Constantine. The bond.” He opened his eyes, looking at her, drinking in the certainty in her gaze. “You tied us together. You made me an alpha with a pack. With a mate.”

Felicity’s lips curved in a small, knowing smile. “Exactly. He doesn’t get to own you anymore, Oliver. He never did. You were just carrying him because you thought you had to.” She reached up, her palm against his cheek now, softening him with her touch. “But you’re not just carrying him anymore. You’re carrying us. Thea. Roy. Me. That’s stronger than any monster.”

Oliver’s chest tightened, but in a different way now. He leaned forward, his lips brushing against hers with a tenderness that belied the storm still lingering inside him.

The kiss deepened, their breath mingling, a promise in the dark. Felicity was right there, grounding him the way she always had—light cutting through the shadow, warmth dissolving the chill of old scars.

When they finally pulled apart, she gave him a pointed look. “So. Are you going to keep brooding about fictional fire princes, or are we going back to my favorite show?”

A breath of laughter escaped him. “You’re impossible.”

Her grin widened. “And yet, you love me.”

“More than anything.”

She snuggled back into him, satisfied, as the next episode began to play. Oliver let his arm circle her shoulders, pulling her close, and tried to let himself believe her words.

That the monster within him was truly gone.

But as Zuko’s scarred face filled the screen again, Oliver couldn’t quite silence the whisper in the back of his mind—
Lykaon wasn’t finished.

XXX

Thea’s wing of the mansion still felt strange sometimes—like she’d borrowed space that wasn’t really hers. But tonight, sprawled across a lounge chair with Roy’s arm draped lazily around her shoulders, it finally felt like home.

Emma had gone down for the night after a full day of boundless energy. Kindergarten started tomorrow, and their little girl had been bouncing around like she was about to step onto a stage instead of into a classroom.

“She has way too much energy,” Roy groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. His free arm dangled over the side of the chair. “I swear, I blinked and she was in three places at once. Where does she even get it?”

Thea smirked, tilting her head so her cheek rested against his chest. “Big strong Arsenal—defeated by a five-year-old. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”

Roy shot her a glare that was more playful than threatening. “You’re really enjoying this, huh?”

“Absolutely.”

That was all the invitation he needed. With a low growl, he shifted, pinning her under him with mock ferocity. His hands found her sides, and suddenly Thea was squealing, laughter spilling out of her as he mercilessly tickled her ribs.

“Roy! Stop!—I—I can’t breathe—” Her laughter dissolved into hiccuping giggles, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She smacked at his arms halfheartedly, but he only grinned wider, relishing her helplessness.

Finally, when she was gasping and wheezing through her laughter, he relented. Thea lay sprawled beneath him, hair tousled, cheeks flushed, eyes shining.

And then she looked at him—really looked at him.

The teasing light in her gaze softened into something deeper, steadier. Love. So pure and fierce that it made Roy’s chest ache. For all the battles they’d fought, the scars they carried, the monsters they’d faced… this was what made it worth it.

They weren’t just Arsenal and Artemis, partners in the shadows, protectors of Starling City. They were two young people in love, building a family from the ashes. And tonight, that love was all that mattered.

Their kiss was slow at first, gentle, then deepened as their laughter gave way to something more tender, more urgent. Roy lifted her easily into his arms, her giggle muffled against his lips as he carried her into their bedroom.

For the rest of the night, they weren’t soldiers or vigilantes. They were just Roy and Thea, lovers who had fought too hard for their happiness to waste a single moment of it.

The next morning, Thea woke feeling boneless, a lazy contentment sinking into her bones. The sunlight slanted through the curtains, casting gold across the bed. Roy lay beside her, sleeping soundly, his chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm.

Her gaze fell on the Mark of Koru etched into his skin, the twin of her own. For a long moment, she just stared, gratitude swelling in her chest until her eyes stung. The voice that had once whispered in her head—Lykaon’s hunger, his fury—was silent now. Not just for her, but for Roy. For Oliver. For all of them.

They were free.

She pressed a soft kiss to Roy’s shoulder before slipping out of bed. Dressing quietly, she padded into Emma’s room where their little girl was already awake, practically buzzing with excitement, backpack in hand as if she might leave without them if they didn’t hurry.

By the time the three of them made their way down to breakfast, the sound of muffled laughter drifted through the halls.

In the dining room, Oliver and Felicity were already seated, looking far too bright-eyed for anyone who hadn’t gotten much sleep. Felicity was grinning as she waved her fork around, animatedly recounting something, while Oliver—actually smiling—just shook his head in amused defeat.

Thea arched a brow knowingly as she pulled out a chair. “Looks like someone had fun last night.”

Felicity beamed. Oliver groaned softly.

And just like that, surrounded by love and laughter, the Queen Mansion felt less like a relic of ghosts and more like a home again.

XXX

The schoolyard was alive with laughter, backpacks bouncing as little kids clung to parents’ hands or charged ahead without a second thought. Thea crouched to smooth down Emma’s dark hair one last time, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

“You sure you’re ready for this, princess?” she asked, her voice just a little too steady.

Emma beamed, hugging her stuffed otter tight before slipping her tiny hand into the teacher’s. “I’m ready, Mommy.”

Thea’s chest tightened. Somehow, her little girl looked smaller and older at the same time, walking away with the other children. She stayed rooted in place until Emma disappeared through the doors.

Beside her, Roy slid an arm around her shoulders. “You okay?”

“I don’t know.” Thea exhaled slowly as they started back toward his car parked along the curb. “It just feels… weird. Like she was three yesterday, and now she’s starting school. She’s growing up too fast.”

Roy squeezed her shoulder, his voice soft. “Yeah, I get it. But think about it this way—she’s excited. She’s not scared. That’s because of you, Thea. You gave her that.”

She leaned into him as they crossed the lot. “Us. We gave her that.”

Roy didn’t argue. He just smiled and pressed a kiss to the top of her head as they reached his black ’67 Chevy Impala. Thea slid into the passenger seat, the leather warm under the morning sun.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced down and laughed under her breath.

“What?” Roy asked, leaning over to start the engine.

“It’s Sin,” Thea said, thumbs tapping quickly. “Apparently her high school is trying to get her into drama class. Quote: ‘Not on their life.’”

Roy chuckled. “Sounds about right. Drama was never her thing.”

Thea smirked, replying back—Hang in there, kid. Don’t let them push you into anything you don’t want. She slipped the phone into her lap and glanced at Roy. “She’s doing good, though. It’s nice to hear from her.”

“Yeah,” Roy agreed. “Feels like forever since we saw her.”

Thea’s smile softened. “She’s family.”

Elsewhere, another family—of a very different kind—was gathered.

The conference hall buzzed with press, scientists, and investors, all waiting for the countdown that would mark the launch of Queen Consolidated’s newest satellite. It had been Felicity Smoak’s project for the past year, and Oliver couldn’t help the swell of pride in his chest as he stood beside her.

“You nervous?” Oliver asked quietly.

Felicity smoothed her blazer, her eyes on the giant display screen. “Nervous? No. Excited? Terrified? On the verge of throwing up in front of three hundred people? Absolutely.”

Oliver’s lips twitched. “You’ve done more complicated things in the Quiver.”

“Yeah, but if I crash a program in the Quiver, it doesn’t cost the company a billion dollars and a headline.”

“Relax,” Tommy cut in, sidling up with that trademark grin that had only grown more infuriating with time. “If it does fail, we’ll just say it was my fault. The VP job comes with a scapegoat clause, right?”

Felicity shot him a glare, but her lips betrayed her with the tiniest smile. “Tommy, not helping.”

“Helping is overrated,” he said breezily. “What are brothers for?”

Oliver shook his head, but the sight of Felicity’s shoulders easing ever so slightly told him Tommy’s teasing had done exactly what it needed to.

The countdown began. 10… 9… 8…

Felicity’s hand found Oliver’s without her even realizing it, her fingers tightening as the seconds ticked away.

3… 2… 1…

The screen lit up with the launch feed—fire and smoke billowing as the rocket carried Queen Consolidated’s Applied Sciences satellite skyward. The room erupted in cheers.

Felicity’s breath caught, her eyes wide, her lips parting in wonder. For all her nerves, all her self-deprecation, Oliver could see the moment pride finally hit her.

“You did it,” he whispered, unable to stop himself.

Her head turned toward him, and for once Felicity Smoak didn’t have a single word to say. She just smiled, luminous and a little dazed, and squeezed his hand harder.

And across the room, Tommy cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Hey, Smoak! Try not to let it go to your head, okay?”

The tension broke, laughter rippling through the staff, and Felicity groaned. “Why do I put up with him again?”

Oliver’s answer was simple. “Because he’s family.”

Felicity blinked, then softened. “Yeah. Guess he is.”

XXX

The whiskey burned smooth on the way down, rich and celebratory. Oliver leaned back in his chair, the skyline of Starling stretching beyond the office windows, while Tommy perched comfortably on the edge of his desk. Felicity had claimed Oliver’s guest chair, spinning herself lazily back and forth like she couldn’t sit still.

“To the genius who somehow conned Queen Consolidated into footing the bill for every sci-fi doodad she could dream up,” Tommy declared, raising his glass toward Felicity.

Felicity sniffed, adjusting her glasses. “It wasn’t a con. It was necessity.”

Tommy grinned wickedly. “Smoaky, you bought a super heat-resistant panel for the inner dashboard.”

“I was being thorough!”

Oliver hid a smile in his glass, letting the warmth spread in his chest.

“Thorough?” Tommy barked a laugh. “Yeah, sure. I’m positive that inner dashboard will stay safe—hidden beneath the supernova panels you just had to have lining the entire satellite. What was that again? Oh right: ‘belt and suspenders.’”

Felicity’s mouth fell open. “You were the one who signed the expense reports! If you didn’t want me buying them, you could’ve said something!”

Tommy’s laughter doubled. “Why would I? Watching you try to justify it to the board was the highlight of my month.”

Oliver’s lips curved, but he stayed quiet, sipping his whiskey as his best friend and his fiancée bickered like siblings. The familiarity of it, the ease—it filled the room with a kind of light he hadn’t thought the Queen name would ever know again.

Finally, Tommy slid off the desk, setting his empty glass down. “As fun as this is, I’ve gotta bail. Laurel and I have a wine-tasting appointment. Apparently picking the right merlot is vital to whether people remember our wedding fondly.”

Felicity smirked. “Please. We all know you’re just using it as an excuse to get her drunk so you can score.”

Tommy shot her finger-guns on the way to the door. “Best part about planning a wedding, Smoaky.”

The door shut behind him, leaving Felicity and Oliver alone in the fading light. She glanced at her phone, then stood, brushing imaginary dust off her blazer.

“We need to head out too,” she said lightly.

Oliver frowned, checking the clock on his desk. “It’s five-thirty. Where are we going?”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she leaned down to press a quick kiss to his lips. “Secret.”

XXX

The sun had dipped below the buildings when Oliver stood in his Arrow leathers once again, the hood shadowing his face. The familiar weight of his bow sat in his hand, the quiver against his back. The city hummed beneath him.

But none of this explained why.

On either side of him, Arsenal and Artemis crouched low, their suits gleaming faintly under the rooftop lights. Roy’s red armor was freshly polished, and Thea’s navy leather carried a proud sheen. Both wore matching grins, the kind that made Oliver suspicious.

“What exactly are we doing here?” Oliver asked, eyes scanning the street below.

Across from them, Garden Park stretched green and wide, its central square thrumming with anticipation. A stage had been erected, the podium framed by banners, a large statue beneath a heavy cloth cover at its center. Crowds gathered, murmuring excitedly as camera crews jostled for position. The Mayor stood near the podium, flanked by the Chief of Police and other city officials.

“Just wait,” Thea murmured, her bow resting casually against her shoulder.

Roy’s grin widened. “Trust us, man. You’re gonna like this.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes at them both. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just another patrol. And judging by the suspiciously smug looks on their faces, it was something they’d been planning for a while.

Below, the Mayor stepped up to the podium, raising his hands for silence.

The crowd hushed.

And Oliver’s confusion deepened.

XXX

The murmur of the crowd hushed as the Mayor stepped to the podium, his voice carrying across Garden Park with the weight of something solemn, something sacred.

“Two years ago, our city was on the brink of collapse,” he began. “Starling City ranked third in the nation for crime and corruption—behind only Gotham and Hub City. Violence filled our streets. Hope was slipping from our people. We wondered if we would survive another year, another month, another day.”

Oliver listened in silence from the rooftop, his hood shadowing his face.

“And then,” the Mayor continued, “one man stood up. A man who asked for no recognition, who took no payment, who fought alone against the worst our city had to offer.”

The crowd stirred. Oliver’s jaw tightened.

“When Malcolm Merlyn tried to destroy us with an earthquake device, he stopped him. When Slade Wilson sought to reduce our city to ash—and annihilate half the planet with a nuclear strike last year—he stopped him. Again and again, he has placed himself between us and annihilation. He has bled for this city. He has given us more than we can ever repay.”

Thea glanced sideways at Oliver, her smirk growing. Roy’s grin wasn’t far behind.

“And now,” the Mayor said, his voice rising with conviction, “Starling City is no longer a city of shadows. It is one of the safest in the nation. Our children can walk our streets. Our people can believe in tomorrow. And for the first time in a long time, we have hope.”

He turned toward the covered statue. “It is time that we honor the man who gave us that hope. The man who has become the symbol of our strength. Our protector.”

The Mayor’s hand lifted. “The Arrow.”

With a sharp tug, the cloth fell.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Oliver’s breath caught in his throat.

The statue towered above the park—himself, cast in bronze, hood raised, bow drawn in eternal vigilance. The sculptor had caught something in the angle of the jaw, in the stance, in the silent defiance. Something he wasn’t sure belonged to him.

Applause thundered.

The Mayor raised a gleaming key high above his head. “Tonight, the Arrow will be presented with the Key to the City. From this day forward, the gates of Starling will always be open to you, our hero!”

Oliver staggered back a step, stunned. For two years, he’d been hunted. Vilified. A criminal in the eyes of the law. And now—

A hand shoved between his shoulder blades.

Oliver hissed in surprise as Thea smirked and shoved him right off the roof. Reflex took over. He fired a grappling arrow, swung hard, and landed smoothly on the stage as if it had all been planned.

The crowd erupted in cheers.

Oliver’s hood shadowed his eyes as he stepped forward. The Mayor smiled and pressed the ornate key into his palm. Oliver accepted it quietly, his mind reeling.

Applause roared again.

The Mayor leaned closer, his words just audible over the noise. “The gates of this city will always be open to you.”

Oliver froze, the words sinking deeper than the bronze statue behind him.

Above, unseen and unheard, a pair of red eyes glowed in the night.

Lykaon watched from the void between shadows, his grin sharp and merciless. Pain is always sweeter when it comes after hope. Believe, little hunter. Believe. Soon you will beg me to take your broken soul.

Later that night, the Quiver hummed with the aftershock of celebration.

Thea sprawled across the couch, still looking far too pleased with herself. Roy leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smirking like he’d known all along how perfect it would be.

Felicity sat at her workstation, screens glowing as she flicked through posts and headlines. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to keep this from you?” she teased, turning her chair to face Oliver. “The Mayor, the statue, the whole thing—we’ve been planning it for weeks.”

Oliver stood in the middle of the room, the Key still heavy in his palm. He hadn’t let it go since the moment it touched his hand.

Felicity swiveled back to her screen. “And look at this.” One monitor filled with messages from Starling’s citizens—stories tumbling over one another. The Arrow saved me from a mugging. The Arrow pulled my son from a burning car. The Arrow stopped a man from taking my purse. Names, faces, gratitude poured across the feed.

Oliver’s throat worked, his voice hoarse. “This is… real?”

Felicity stood, stepping close, her hand sliding over his where he clutched the Key. Her eyes softened, warm and unyielding. “Yes, Oliver. This is real.”

He let out a shuddering breath, daring—for the first time in years—to hope.

And in the silence only he could hear, Lykaon’s laughter rumbled dark and low.

Hope. Yes. Believe in it. Because when I break you again, it will taste all the sweeter.

XXX

The text came in just as Felicity was scrolling through the last of the celebratory posts from the statue unveiling. Her phone buzzed, and she blinked down at the message.

Her eyes widened. “Oh my god.”

Thea glanced up from where she was still teasing Roy about his rooftop “brooding pose.” “What?”

“It’s Dig.” Felicity’s voice pitched higher, excited. “Lyla’s water just broke.”

In an instant, the Quiver filled with movement—chairs scraping, hoods being pulled back, gear stashed.

Minutes later, they barreled into the hospital. John Diggle was pacing the waiting area, his usually calm, steady presence replaced with restless energy. He rubbed a hand over his face, muttering under his breath.

“John,” Oliver said carefully, approaching him. “How’s Lyla?”

John let out a sharp laugh that sounded half-panicked. “She’s… fine. More than fine. Calm as ever. Which is more than I can say for me. She—” He swallowed. “She kicked me out.”

“Kicked you out?” Roy repeated, eyebrows up.

“Apparently,” John said tightly, “watching her in pain and panicking like a rookie wasn’t helping. Two tours in Kandahar, firefights, explosions—I kept it together. But in there?” He gestured helplessly toward the delivery room. “Watching her hurt, knowing I can’t stop it… I froze. I couldn’t breathe. What if something goes wrong?”

Felicity’s heart softened. “Oh, John.” She touched his arm gently. “She’s going to be okay.”

John exhaled, shaking his head, still pacing.

“Wait,” Roy cut in, processing. “So Lyla’s in labor, you’re freaking out, and she’s calm?”

John gave him a look. “She’s Lyla.”

Roy muttered under his breath, “Badass.”

Thea nodded firmly. “Agreed.”

That earned the faintest smile from John, tension easing just slightly.

So they stayed. Hours passed—filled with vending machine coffee, awkward attempts to distract John with jokes, and Felicity giving Oliver a look every time he sat too quietly in the corner, lost in his thoughts.

Then, at last, a nurse came to find them.

“Mr. Diggle? You can come in now.”

They moved as one.

Inside, the harsh hospital light seemed softer somehow. Lyla sat propped against the pillows, exhausted but radiant, her arms wrapped around a tiny bundle.

The baby’s cry filled the air, high and pure.

Oliver’s chest tightened. He hadn’t expected it to feel like this, like something sacred.

John froze for a heartbeat at the door. Then he stepped forward, his face crumpling as he looked at his daughter for the first time. Pure love filled his eyes, stronger than any battlefield bravery. He bent and kissed Lyla’s forehead, his hand trembling as he touched the baby’s cheek.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered.

Thea was the first to speak, her voice soft. “Do you… do you have a name?”

Lyla looked up, exhaustion in her smile, but something bright too. “Cassie Hermione Diggle.”

Felicity blinked. “Wait. Hermione? Like—”

Lyla’s gaze found her, warm and deliberate. “In honor of Felicity. Her nickname.”

Felicity’s throat closed, her eyes welling. “Oh. Oh, wow. I—” She pressed her hand to her heart, overwhelmed. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You say yes,” Lyla teased gently, “to being her godmother.”

Felicity laughed through the tears, nodding. “Yes. Absolutely yes.”

Thea leaned close to the baby, her smile soft and uncharacteristically tender. Roy muttered something about “world’s luckiest kid,” but his grin was wide.

Oliver lingered near the back, watching. A new life. A family expanding. It was good. Too good.

After a while, he slipped out quietly. The joy inside that room was almost too much to carry. Between the Key to the City and John’s daughter being born, it felt as though the universe had given him a reprieve he hadn’t earned. He wasn’t used to things going well.

The sharp edge of a commotion cut through his thoughts.

Down the hall, shouting echoed. He hurried toward the lobby just in time to see a man in a hospital gown thrashing wildly, eyes wild, a scalpel clutched in his hand. Nurses cried out as he swung, screaming about snakes, his words slurred and frantic.

Oliver’s instincts kicked in. He started forward—

And then the man collapsed.

The scalpel clattered to the tile. The nurses swarmed, trying desperately to revive him. Moments later, one shook her head. The man was gone.

Oliver stood frozen, chest heaving.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice low, sharp.

One of the nurses turned to him, shaken. “He came in earlier, disoriented. Some kind of poisoning, we think. Maybe a new drug. It caused hallucinations, paranoia. But I’ve never heard of anything this extreme.”

A new drug. A new threat.

As they wheeled the body down the hall under a white sheet, Oliver’s jaw set.

That was when he heard it.

A faint, deliberate echo. The squeak of wheels against tile. The rattle of the gurney frame. The hiss of the oxygen bag being carried alongside. Except—it wasn’t coming from the nurses.

Oliver’s gaze snapped toward the far end of the corridor.

A man stood there, cloaked in black, still as a shadow. His head tilted slightly, as though listening to something no one else could hear. And then, softly, chillingly, he mimicked the exact sounds of the stretcher being pushed away.

Squeak. Rattle. Hiss.

The hairs on the back of Oliver’s neck rose.

By the time he blinked, the figure was gone.

The city had given him hope tonight. A statue. A key. A promise.

But as always, darkness waited just beyond the light.

And now, it seemed, the darkness had a voice.

Chapter Text

The Quiver was quiet in the way that never truly meant peace. Screens glowed softly. The hum of servers filled the space beneath Queen Mansion like a mechanical heartbeat. Oliver stood with his hands braced against the workstation, eyes fixed on surveillance stills pulled from the hospital.

Nothing.

No usable angle. No clear face. Just a blur of black at the edge of one frame and an absence where someone should have been.

Diggle hovered nearby, arms crossed, jaw set. “You saw something, Oliver. I know that look.”

“I did,” Oliver said evenly. “And I don’t know what it was yet.”

Diggle nodded once. “Then I’m in.”

Oliver turned, meeting his eyes. “No. You’re not.”

John stiffened.

“You have a wife who just gave birth,” Oliver continued, voice calm but firm. “And a daughter who needs you more than Starling City does tonight.”

Diggle hesitated, conflict clear on his face.

Felicity rolled her chair closer, her expression gentle but resolute. “Cassie Hermione Diggle is officially my goddaughter. Which means I get a vote. And my vote is that you go be a husband and a father.”

That did it. John’s shoulders relaxed slightly, emotion flickering across his face. “I don’t like it,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Oliver replied. “But this isn’t something you need to carry right now.”

After a beat, Diggle nodded. “Call me if it changes.”

“We will,” Felicity said.

As Diggle left, Roy leaned back against the railing, arms folded. “Only Oliver could go to a childbirth and somehow come back with a case.”

Oliver shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel.

Roy raised both hands. “Too soon?”

“Suit up,” Oliver said flatly.

Thea straightened instantly, all levity gone. “What’s the plan?”

“Felicity, keep digging,” Oliver said, turning back to the screens. “Cross-reference recent hospital admissions, overdoses, violent psychotic episodes. Anything that looks like what we saw tonight.”

“Already started,” Felicity replied, fingers flying. “And Oliver? Whatever that drug is—it doesn’t behave like anything on record. It’s not synthetic. It’s not recreational. It’s… wrong.”

Oliver felt something coil low in his chest at that word.

He turned to Roy and Thea. “We hit the streets. Talk to people. Bartenders. Dealers. Anyone who hears things before they make the news.”

Roy nodded. “Arsenal’s ready.”

Thea glanced upward for just a moment, toward the floors above them. “Emma’s with Raisa,” she said quietly. “She’s watching cartoons and arguing about bedtime.”

“Good,” Oliver said. “She stays blissfully unaware.”

Thea met his gaze, understanding passing between them. Then she reached for her mask.

Minutes later, the three of them stood in the dim glow of the Quiver’s exit tunnel, bows slung, hoods drawn.

As they disappeared into the night, Oliver pushed the hospital image from his mind—the way the sounds had been repeated, not echoed. The way the darkness had felt deliberate. Watching.

Somewhere in Starling City, a new predator was moving.

And Oliver intended to find it before it found anyone else.

XXX

Engines purred to life beneath the city lights.

Arrow, Arsenal, and Artemis cut through Starling City on three separate vectors, their custom bikes eating up asphalt with controlled aggression. They didn’t ride together—not because they couldn’t, but because they knew better. Coverage mattered. Speed mattered. Silence mattered.

Tonight, they hunted echoes.

XXX

The docks smelled of salt, oil, and old sins. Arsenal rolled in low and quiet, cutting his engine two blocks out and coasting the rest of the way. He dismounted behind a stack of rusting containers, red armor blending into shadow as naturally as breathing.

Roy listened.

Forklifts hummed in the distance. Chains clinked. Waves slapped rhythmically against pylons. Nothing out of place. Too clean.

He moved fast, efficient—checking manifests on unattended tablets, peering through cracked container seals, scanning for chemical residue with a handheld sensor Felicity had slipped into his gear at the last minute.

“Smugglers change patterns when they get sloppy,” Roy muttered to himself. “Or when they get smart.”

He scaled a crane in seconds, crouching at the top to survey the docks from above. His enhanced senses—gifted by the Mark, now quiet but sharpened—picked up heartbeats, breath, movement. Longshoremen. Security guards. No fear. No desperation. No paranoia.

No drug.

“Arsenal to Arrow,” he said quietly into the comm. “Docks are clean. No unusual shipments, no new product chatter. Whoever’s behind this isn’t moving through here.”

There was a pause. Then Oliver’s voice. Tight. “Copy.”

XXX

Artemis didn’t slow as she crossed into the Glades. She never did.

The streets here told their stories loud—graffiti layered over graffiti, corners where deals had been done for years, alleyways that remembered blood even after the rain washed it away. Thea parked, helmet off, bow already in hand.

She moved like a ghost, light and fast, dropping into familiar haunts where smugglers once whispered her name with fear and respect.

She listened. She watched.

A group of low-level dealers huddled around a barrel fire. Their pupils were normal. Their hands steady. No tremors. No wild glances at shadows that weren’t there.

She slipped closer, her presence announced only by the soft click of an arrowhead kissing concrete.

“New drugs,” she said calmly. “Anything that makes you see things.”

One of them scoffed nervously. “Lady, if something like that hit the Glades, we’d know. People would be tearing each other apart.”

Thea studied him for a beat longer, then melted back into the night.

She checked three more locations. Old routes. New faces. Same result.

“Artemis to Arrow,” she finally said. “Nothing. No rumors, no supply, no side effects matching what we’re looking for.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“Copy,” Oliver replied.

XXX

Arrow rode into the abandoned districts where Starling City gave up pretending.

Collapsed buildings. Burned-out factories. Streets erased from maps but not memory. If someone wanted to manufacture something dangerous—something experimental—this is where they’d do it.

Oliver parked beneath the skeleton of an old processing plant and moved on foot, senses flaring outward. The Mark was silent, but it had left him sharper than before. He could hear rats skittering behind walls. Feel the subtle vibration of power lines still running somewhere underground.

He found signs of nothing.

No chemical runoff. No heat signature anomalies. No discarded equipment. No guards posted too confidently or too nervously.

Whoever had done this hadn’t left a footprint. Or worse—they hadn’t started yet.

Oliver stood alone in the dark, jaw clenched, frustration coiling tight in his chest.

“Arrow to team,” he said finally. “We’re coming up empty.”

Roy’s voice came back first. “So what, they hit once and vanish?”

“No,” Oliver replied, eyes scanning the dead city around him. “Nobody introduces a drug that volatile for a single patient.”

Thea cut in. “Which means they’re testing.”

“Yes,” Oliver said grimly. “And they’re careful.”

Silence settled over the comms.

Oliver mounted his bike again, anger simmering beneath his control. He didn’t like not knowing. He didn’t like predators who hid behind chaos and let others suffer first.

And he especially didn’t like that tonight—of all nights—should have been about hope.

Instead, the city had given him a warning.

Whatever this was, it was coming.

XXX

Queen Consolidated’s executive boardroom was all glass, steel, and quiet authority. Morning light poured in from the skyline, refracting off the polished table where Starling City’s most powerful decision-makers sat in disciplined rows.

At the head of the table, Oliver Queen wore his CEO face with practiced ease. Tailored suit. Neutral expression. No hint that he’d spent the night chasing ghosts through the city.

“Let’s get started,” Oliver said evenly.

Screens lit up. The room shifted into focus.

The quarterly executive meeting was one of the few times QC’s leadership gathered in full—VP, COO, CFO, Head of HR, senior directors, and, seated to Oliver’s right, Tommy Merlyn. To his left, Felicity Smoak already had three tablets synced and a stylus in hand.

The COO began with operational updates—supply chain stability, international manufacturing timelines, infrastructure investments. Solid. Efficient. Profitable.

Then the screen shifted.

“Applied Sciences,” Oliver said.

Felicity straightened, suddenly all business. The playful warmth she carried outside these walls sharpened into something precise and formidable.

“As of seventy-two hours ago,” she began, “the QC-Astra satellite is fully operational and exceeding baseline expectations.”

Data streamed across the screen—orbital stability, signal integrity, power efficiency. Felicity spoke with calm confidence, translating complex systems into language the board could digest.

“The satellite’s primary revenue streams will come from three vectors,” she continued. “Encrypted communications for government and private security contracts, real-time environmental monitoring services, and proprietary data licensing for research institutions.”

The CFO leaned forward. “Projected returns?”

“Break-even within eighteen months,” Felicity replied without hesitation. “Profit margins climb sharply after that. The satellite’s modular architecture allows us to scale without launching a replacement platform.”

A murmur of approval rippled around the table.

Tommy leaned toward Oliver and murmured, “Told you approving those ‘ridiculous purchases’ would pay off.”

Oliver didn’t look at him. “You’re on thin ice.”

Tommy grinned.

The meeting moved on.

Public relations followed. QC’s brand metrics were trending upward—trust, visibility, consumer confidence. The Arrow statue and the satellite launch had done more than boost stock value; they’d shifted the narrative around the Queen name.

“For the first time in years,” the PR director said, “Queen Consolidated is seen as a stabilizing force. Not just a legacy company, but a future-facing one.”

Oliver listened carefully. Hope was good. Momentum was dangerous.

Then HR took the floor.

“As of September,” the Head of HR reported, “QC employs just over forty-three thousand staff globally. Retention is strong. Employee welfare programs are exceeding engagement benchmarks, and absenteeism is down six percent compared to last year.”

Charts appeared—health benefits utilization, training investments, leadership development pipelines.

“We project moderate hiring in Q4,” she continued, “primarily in Applied Sciences, cybersecurity, and satellite operations. No layoffs anticipated.”

Felicity exhaled quietly, relieved.

By the time the meeting adjourned, the boardroom buzzed with restrained optimism. Handshakes were exchanged. Tablets powered down.

As executives filtered out, Tommy lingered, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “You did good today, Oliver.”

“So did you,” Oliver replied.

Felicity gathered her things, glancing between them. “You realize this is the part where normal people go out for lunch and celebrate, right?”

Oliver almost smiled.

As they left the boardroom, Oliver paused by the window, looking out over Starling City. From up here, the streets looked orderly. Controlled. Safe.

But he knew better.

Numbers could lie. Data could mislead. And monsters didn’t show up on quarterly reports.

Somewhere in the city, something was moving. And while Queen Consolidated thrived in the daylight, Oliver felt the familiar pull of the shadows waiting for him at night.

XXX

The lights in Oliver’s office had dimmed automatically hours ago, leaving only the glow of his desk lamp and the city beyond the glass. Stacks of reports lay neatly arranged—budget approvals, international compliance forms, satellite oversight documentation. Necessary. Endless.

Oliver loosened his tie and exhaled, pen scratching across the page. This was the part of being CEO no one ever talked about—the quiet weight of responsibility when the adrenaline faded and the world expected you to keep it running anyway.

Then his instincts flared.

Sharp. Immediate.

Oliver straightened, every muscle tightening as if he’d just stepped onto a rooftop mid-patrol. His hand hovered near the desk drawer where, out of habit, nothing useful waited.

Before he could move, a violent gust of wind tore through the office. Papers lifted, spiraling into the air like startled birds. The lamp flickered.

And suddenly—someone was standing in front of his desk.

Red jacket. Disheveled hair. Breathing hard like he’d just run a marathon in seconds.

Oliver blinked once. Slowly.

“…Okay,” he said aloud, more to himself than anything else. “Either I fell asleep at my desk, I’m hallucinating, or I’ve finally gone insane.”

“Oliver! You’re not insane—well, I mean, maybe a little, but that’s not the point,” the man blurted out. “I just woke up from a coma, and I have superpowers, and I ran here from Central City, which is insane because I didn’t even know I could do that until like twenty minutes ago—”

“Barry,” Oliver said calmly.

Barry Allen froze mid-ramble. “You know my name.”

“I do,” Oliver replied, standing. “And you’re going to sit down, take a deep breath, and start from the beginning.”

Barry stared at him for a moment, then laughed breathlessly. “Right. Yeah. Okay. That makes sense. You’re weirdly calm about this.”

“Trust me,” Oliver said dryly, gesturing to the chair. “This isn’t the strangest thing that’s happened in my office.”

Barry sat. Talked. Talked some more.

He explained the particle accelerator. The lightning. The coma. Waking up faster, sharper—different. Words tumbled over each other as Oliver listened, absorbing every detail with focused intensity. He asked questions. Clarified timelines. Tested logic.

“So,” Barry said, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s… that.”

Oliver nodded once. “You should get back.”

Barry stood, nodding eagerly. “Yeah. Thanks Oliver.”

He turned toward the window, then paused as Oliver’s voice stopped him.

“One more thing.”

Barry looked back.

“Call Felicity,” Oliver said. “Tell her you’re awake. She’ll want you at the wedding.”

Barry froze. Then spun around. “Wedding?” His jaw nearly hit the floor. “You and Felicity—”

Oliver allowed himself the faintest smirk. “Yeah. That surprises everyone.”

Barry’s shock melted into a wide, genuine smile. “Oliver… congratulations. Really. She’s amazing. You’re lucky.”

“I know.”

Barry lingered for a heartbeat, something resolute settling behind his eyes. “I’ll call her. Before I head back.”

And in a blink—he was gone. Another rush of wind, papers fluttering to the floor. Silence followed.

Oliver leaned back against his desk, staring out at the city lights below.

“Don’t waste this, Barry,” he whispered to the empty room.

XXX

It was well past dark by the time Oliver finally left his office. The city glittered, deceptively calm, and the drive home was quiet enough that he almost believed it. Almost.

As he stepped inside, the mansion greeted him not with silence—but with music.

Not orchestral. Not ambient. Upbeat. Slightly off-key.

Oliver slowed, brow furrowing, and followed the sound toward the kitchen. What he found there stopped him cold.

Felicity stood barefoot on the tile, sleeves rolled up, hair loose and bouncing as she moved to the rhythm of whatever song was playing through her phone. She was singing along—badly, enthusiastically—while stirring something in a pan that smelled… ambitious.

For a long moment, Oliver simply watched.

This was Felicity unguarded. No screens. No crises. No weight of the city on her shoulders. Just joy, movement, light. The woman who had stitched his fractured soul back together, dancing in his kitchen like the world had never tried to break her.

He crossed the room quietly, slid his arms around her from behind, and spun her around before she could gasp. In one smooth motion, he lifted her onto the counter and kissed her—deep, breathless, the kind of kiss that made everything else disappear.

Felicity melted into him, fingers clutching his jacket. When they finally broke apart, she was flushed crimson, breath unsteady, eyes bright.

“Hi,” she said faintly.

Oliver smiled. “Hi.” He brushed his thumb along her cheek. “What are you doing?”

She grinned, still breathless. “I talked to Barry.”

That caught his attention. “You did?”

“He called. He’s out of the coma, Oliver. And—apparently—he has superpowers now?” She laughed, half disbelieving, half thrilled. “He said you helped him. Told him to breathe. To believe in himself.”

Oliver shrugged slightly. “He needed grounding.”

“Well,” Felicity said, clearly proud of herself, “that made me very happy. So I decided to cook.”

Oliver arched a brow. “A late dinner?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “And before you panic—this is meaningful. I wanted to thank you.”

She hopped down and gestured dramatically to the pan. “I made a Jewish dish. I researched. I followed a recipe.”

Oliver’s smile softened. “You did all that for me?”

She nodded. “Because you deserve good things.”

He took a bite.

The smile froze.

It was… terrible. Overcooked, underseasoned, somehow both too dry and too wet at the same time. Objectively, it was a crime.

He swallowed. Took another bite.

Felicity watched him closely. “Is it—”

“It’s great,” Oliver said immediately, and kept eating.

Her eyes narrowed. “Oliver Queen, that was not convincing.”

He finished the plate anyway, set it aside, and took her hands. “It doesn’t matter. You made it for me. That’s what I taste.”

Her expression crumpled into something soft and overwhelmed. She leaned into him, forehead against his chest.

“I love you,” she murmured.

“I know,” he said quietly. “And I love you. More than I can say.”

For a few minutes, the mansion was warm. Safe. Home.

XXX

Elsewhere in Starling City, police lights cut through an alleyway’s darkness.

SCPD officers stood back as a body was uncovered—eyes glassy, chest pierced clean through. Not bullets.

Arrows.

Black-fletched. Precise.

Whatever had begun in the shadows was no longer subtle.

XXX

The morning should have been ordinary.

Sunlight spilled through the windows of Queen Mansion, the quiet domestic rhythm of two people getting ready for work settling in. Oliver adjusted his cufflinks at the mirror while Felicity stood near the dresser, tablet in hand, her brow furrowing deeper with every second.

“…That’s not possible,” she murmured.

Oliver glanced over. “What?”

Felicity turned the screen toward him. “SCPD internal update. Restricted channel.” She swallowed. “Someone was killed last night. With black arrows.”

The room went still.

Oliver crossed to her, eyes scanning the report. Sparse details. Alleyway. Male victim. Cause of death: penetrating trauma. Weapon type withheld. Status: contained.

“They’re keeping it quiet,” Felicity said, voice tight. “Intentionally. No press leaks, no public statement.”

Oliver exhaled slowly.

Felicity continued, thinking aloud. “They’re doing damage control. If this had happened a month ago, they would’ve plastered it across every screen with the Arrow’s name attached.”

She looked up at him. “The Key. That’s the only reason they’re giving you this consideration.”

Oliver nodded once. The weight of that recognition pressed uncomfortably against his ribs. “Then I’m not wasting it.”

He turned, already reaching for the wardrobe concealed behind the wall panel.

Felicity blinked. “You’re… suiting up?”

“Yes.” His voice was calm, decisive. “I’m going to the scene.”

“In daylight?”

“I need answers,” Oliver replied. “And if someone’s using arrows like mine, I need to know who.”

Minutes later, Arrow landed in the alley amid flashing patrol lights and yellow tape.

Every instinct in him screamed wrong. He was exposed. Unmasked. Standing in full view of uniformed officers and detectives who’d once chased him across rooftops. Daylight stripped away the comfort of shadow, made every movement feel too visible.

A voice cut through the tension. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Oliver turned to see Captain Lance approaching, hands on his hips, expression hovering somewhere between skepticism and grudging tolerance.

“Didn’t think I’d see you strolling around before sunset,” Lance said dryly.

Oliver ignored the comment. “What happened?”

Lance studied him for a moment, then sighed. “Victim was found around two a.m. No ID. No witnesses. Cause of death is obvious.”

Oliver crouched, eyes sweeping the alley. No blood spatter on the walls. No drag marks deep enough to suggest a struggle.

“This isn’t where he was killed,” Oliver said quietly.

Lance frowned. “You sure?”

“Yes.” Oliver pointed. “No arterial spray. No signs of panic. He was already dead when he got here. This was a drop.”

Lance’s jaw tightened. “That’s consistent with what forensics said.”

An officer handed Oliver an evidence bag. Inside lay one of the arrows recovered from the body. Oliver took it carefully, his gloved fingers closing around the shaft.

He felt it immediately.

This wasn’t mass-produced. Not scavenged. The fletching was custom-cut. The balance precise. The material reinforced beyond standard carbon fiber.

“This arrow was made,” Oliver said. “Not bought.”

Lance’s eyes narrowed. “Like yours.”

“Yes,” Oliver replied. “But not by me.”

The implication hung heavy between them.

Someone in Starling City had the skill. The resources. And the intent to imitate him.

Oliver straightened, gaze lifting toward the rooftops ringing the alley. For the first time since receiving the Key to the City, he felt the truth settle in his bones.

Honor didn’t protect you from being replaced.

And symbols—once created—could always be twisted.

XXX

The Quiver hummed with quiet intensity. Screens flickered as Felicity worked, fingers flying with practiced speed. Oliver stood a few steps back, arms crossed, jaw tight, still carrying the discomfort of daylight patrol in his bones.

Roy leaned against the railing, helmet tucked under his arm. “I mean… are we really surprised?”

Thea glanced over from where she was leaning against one of the weapon racks. “About what?”

“That someone else in Starling City decided to use a bow and arrow,” Roy said. “You’ve been doing it for over two years, man. You had to know this was coming eventually.”

Thea’s lips curved into a wicked grin. “Congratulations, Oliver. You officially have a fan club.”

Oliver shot her a glare sharp enough to pin her to the wall.

“Do not finish that sentence.”

Thea lifted her hands innocently. “What? I didn’t say good fan club.”

Felicity bit her lip, hiding a smile. She glanced at Oliver—at the way his shoulders were tense, his posture protective, territorial. Something warm curled low in her stomach.

His city, she thought.
He doesn’t share.

“Wow,” Roy said slowly, watching Oliver with open amusement. “You’re doing the wolf thing.”

Oliver’s glare deepened.

Thea laughed. “Totally the wolf thing. ‘This is my territory, and I will bite.’”

“Enough,” Oliver snapped.

Felicity cleared her throat, refocusing them. “Okay. I’ve got the victim.”

That wiped the smiles away instantly.

“Name’s Daniel Cross,” Felicity continued, pulling his file onto the main screen. “Senior management banker. Clean financial records. No criminal ties. No flagged transactions. Married. Loving wife. And…” Her voice softened. “A five-year-old son.”

The room went still.

Roy’s expression hardened. Thea’s shoulders squared. The teasing evaporated like it had never been there.

“Same age as Emma,” Roy muttered.

Thea swallowed, eyes fixed on the screen.

“There’s nothing in his history that explains why someone would want him dead,” Felicity said quietly. “No lawsuits. No hostile takeovers. No shady side businesses. By all accounts, he was boring.”

Oliver stepped forward, eyes dark. “Then someone wanted him dead for what he knew… or what he was about to do.”

He turned to Roy and Thea. “Suit up.”

They didn’t hesitate.

“Roy,” Oliver continued, “you talk to his assistant. Office, routines, recent changes. Anything off.”

Roy nodded. “On it.”

“Thea,” Oliver said, turning to her, “you talk to the wife. Be careful. She’s grieving—and she has a child.”

Thea’s voice was steady. “I’ll handle it.”

Oliver grabbed his bow. “I’ll meet with his lawyer. Whoever handled the will. I want to know if Daniel Cross changed anything recently. New beneficiaries. New clauses. Anything.”

Felicity looked up at him. “Be careful.”

Oliver met her gaze, something fierce and protective passing between them. “I will.”

As Roy and Thea headed for their suits, Thea shot him one last look over her shoulder. “Try not to maul anyone, alpha.”

Oliver didn’t rise to it.

This wasn’t a joke anymore. Someone was using his weapon. His symbol. And they’d already crossed a line Oliver Queen did not forgive.

Starling City was his to protect.

And whoever thought otherwise had just declared themselves prey.

XXX

Arsenal leaned casually against the doorway of the sleek glass office, posture loose, expression easy. Daniel Cross’s assistant sat behind her desk, fingers fidgeting with a pen she hadn’t stopped clicking since Roy walked in.

“I know this is a lot,” Roy said gently, offering a sympathetic smile. “And I promise, I’m not here to make your day worse.”

She exhaled, shoulders easing despite herself.

“You worked closely with Daniel,” Roy continued. “If something was bothering him, you’d notice.”

She hesitated. Then nodded. “He was… off. The last week.”

Roy tilted his head, listening.

“He kept double-checking files. Asking me to reschedule meetings he’d already confirmed. He snapped at a client—which never happened. Daniel hated confrontation.”

“Anything specific?” Roy asked.

She swallowed. “There was a deal. A loan. Big one. He wouldn’t let anyone else in on it.”

Roy’s eyes sharpened. “What kind of deal?”

“Agricultural reserves,” she said. “Farmland. Storage. Distribution. But the client… he wouldn’t give a name. Not a company. Nothing. Daniel said it was ‘handled,’ but he didn’t sleep after that.”

Roy nodded slowly. “Thank you. That helps.”

As he left, his charm faded into something sharper.

XXX

Artemis sat across from Daniel Cross’s wife in a quiet living room that still smelled like grief. Toys were neatly stacked in a corner. A child’s shoes rested by the door.

Thea didn’t rush. She didn’t interrogate. She listened.

“He kept saying everything would be fine,” Mrs. Cross whispered, eyes red-rimmed. “But he didn’t believe it. I could tell.”

Thea leaned forward slightly. “What changed?”

“A client,” she said softly. “Daniel never talked about work at home. But this one…” She shook her head. “He said the man scared him. Not angry scared—quiet scared.”

“Did he say why?” Thea asked.

“No.” She swallowed hard. “Just that the money was too good to turn down. That it was already done. And that he wished he’d never opened the file.”

Thea’s jaw tightened. “Did he mention farmland?”

Mrs. Cross looked up sharply. “Yes.”

Thea reached across the table, squeezing her hand gently. “Thank you for telling me.”

She left knowing exactly what kind of monster they were dealing with.

XXX

Arrow didn’t sit when Daniel Cross’s lawyer offered him a chair. He stood, hands folded behind his back, presence filling the room without effort.

“You closed Daniel Cross’s last deal,” Oliver said evenly.

The lawyer adjusted his tie. “Yes. A private client.”

Oliver’s gaze never wavered. “Who?”

“I don’t know,” the man admitted. “No personal identifiers. No shell company. Funds were legitimate. Clean. Excessive.”

“Excessive how?”

“Enough to make Daniel hesitate,” the lawyer said quietly. “He signed anyway.”

Oliver nodded once. “What was the loan for?”

“Farm reserves,” the lawyer replied. “Land acquisition. Storage facilities. Long-term holdings.”

“And Daniel?” Oliver asked.

The lawyer exhaled. “He called me the night after the deal closed. Asked if I thought it was a mistake.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

Oliver turned toward the door. “So did he.”

XXX

The Quiver absorbed their silence when they reconvened. Three reports. Same conclusion.

Felicity pieced it together on the main screen. “Daniel was killed for what he knew. Or for what he was afraid he’d learn next.”

Roy folded his arms. “Mysterious client. Too much money. No name.”

Thea’s voice was quiet but firm. “He was a loose end.”

Oliver stared at the city map glowing before them. “Which means whoever this client is… they’re methodical. Careful. And willing to kill to stay invisible.”

Felicity looked up. “So what’s next?”

Oliver’s eyes hardened.

“We find the client.”

XXX

Felicity had been cross-referencing agricultural shell companies when the alert hit.

Her head snapped up. “Oh. Oh—okay, that’s new.”

“What?” Oliver asked instantly.

“The satellite,” Felicity said, fingers flying as she pulled the feed onto the main screen. “Thermal anomaly. Midtown rooftops. Adult male. Elevated heart rate. And—” Her breath caught. “He’s carrying a bow.”

The image sharpened. A heat silhouette moved fast across concrete and steel, the unmistakable outline of a longbow strapped across his back.

Roy straightened. “That’s our guy.”

“I set the parameters after last night,” Felicity continued. “High-speed movement, weapons profile, isolated rooftop traversal. He tripped all of them.”

Oliver was already reaching for his hood. “Location?”

“Midtown. Four blocks from Trident Avenue. He’s headed east.”

They didn’t hesitate.

Engines roared to life as Arrow, Arsenal, and Artemis tore out of the underground garage, bikes cutting through traffic with surgical precision.

On comms, Felicity stayed with them, voice focused but edged with adrenaline. “I can’t believe how sloppy he is. He didn’t mask his heat signature, didn’t shield the bow, didn’t even attempt route randomization. For someone trying to imitate you, Oliver, he’s… bad at it.”

“Copycats usually are,” Oliver replied flatly.

“He also didn’t leave the weapon behind,” Roy added. “Which is kind of a rookie mistake when you’re trying not to be caught.”

“Let’s make sure he learns from it,” Thea said coolly.

The satellite feed zoomed in as the heat signature stopped—then vanished.

“He went inside,” Felicity said. “Small tech company. Data analytics startup. Minimal security. Oliver—he’s carrying explosives.”

Oliver’s grip tightened on the handlebars. “We’re there.”

They skidded to a stop outside the building and moved fast, bows already in hand. Inside, panic had just begun to bloom.

Servers hummed loudly. Employees froze mid-motion as a man in black stood near the main data rack, timer blinking red in his hand. He spun as the doors burst open.

“You don’t belong here,” the copycat snarled, reaching for his bow.

Arrow fired first. The arrow pinned the man’s wrist to the wall, the detonator clattering harmlessly to the floor. Arsenal followed, disarming him with a sharp kick, while Artemis swept the room, guiding terrified staff toward the exit with calm authority.

The copycat recovered quickly—too quickly for an amateur. He twisted free, launched an arrow that Arrow barely deflected, and went hand-to-hand with Roy in a flurry of motion.

But skill without discipline only went so far.

Thea swept his legs. Oliver disarmed him completely. Roy pinned him to the floor, breathless but grinning.

“Yeah,” Roy muttered. “You’re not him.”

The man struggled once more—then stilled as Oliver’s boot pressed firmly against his shoulder.

“Who are you working for?” Oliver demanded.

The copycat laughed, blood on his teeth. “You think I know?”

Oliver’s eyes darkened.

XXX

The copycat lay pinned to the floor, wrists zip-tied, breath coming in ragged bursts. The tech company was silent now—servers powered down, employees evacuated, the echo of panic still clinging to the air.

Oliver stood over him, unmoving.

An innocent man was dead.
Another massacre had been seconds away.

Something hot and old stirred in his chest.

He reached down and grabbed the copycat by the collar, hauling him upright with brutal force. The man’s boots scraped uselessly against the floor as Oliver forced him to meet his gaze—green mask, white lenses, unblinking.

“Start talking,” Oliver said.

His voice wasn’t right.

It was lower. Heavier. Each word seemed to vibrate in the air, carrying weight far beyond sound. Unnoticed by Oliver, his teeth sharpened slightly behind the mask, pressure building along his jaw as something ancient pushed closer to the surface.

“Or I will kill you,” Oliver continued, calm and lethal, “slowly.”

The copycat’s bravado evaporated. His pupils blew wide as terror took hold—not the fear of a man, but the instinctive dread of prey realizing it had been caught by a predator.

“I—I don’t know anything,” he stammered. “I swear—”

Oliver didn’t hesitate.

He twisted sharply.

The crack of bone filled the room. The man screamed, high and raw, collapsing against Oliver’s grip as his arm bent where it shouldn’t.

“Last chance,” Oliver growled.

The copycat sobbed, words tumbling out in panic. “I was paid! I didn’t meet him—never saw his face—just instructions—drops, targets—”

Then he seized.

His body went rigid. Blood seeped from his ears, dark and sudden. His eyes rolled back as his heart stuttered and stopped.

Dead.

Oliver released him slowly, the corpse slumping to the floor. The heat in his chest receded just enough for shock to cut through the rage.

Roy stared, shaken. Thea swallowed hard. Neither said a word.

Minutes later, red and blue lights washed through the windows as SCPD and medics swarmed the scene. Statements were taken. Procedures followed. The body was bagged.

Oliver stood apart, fists clenched, breathing controlled.

Then he heard it.

The zipper.
The rustle of plastic.
The squeak of the gurney wheels.

Perfectly mimicked.

Not echoed—recreated.

Oliver’s head snapped toward the far end of the room. Nothing there. Just shadows where someone had been.

A chill crawled up his spine.

This wasn’t the copycat.
This wasn’t over.

And somewhere in the darkness, something was listening—waiting for the monster within him to break free again.

Chapter Text

Metal rang out in the Quiver, sharp and rhythmic.

Oliver pulled himself up the salmon ladder with controlled brutality, muscles burning, breath steady. Up. Down. Up again. Sweat slicked his skin as his body moved on instinct, each repetition punishing, grounding.

He needed this.

Because every time his mind slowed, the memories surged forward.

The copycat’s eyes as fear swallowed him whole.
The sound of bone breaking under Oliver’s hands.
The way the man had started to speak—only to seize, blood spilling from his ears as if something else had reached inside him and pulled.

Then the hospital.
The raving patient.
Snakes that weren’t there.
The sound—always the sound—being repeated.

Oliver hauled himself up again, jaw clenched.

“Frack,” Felicity’s voice floated up from behind him, breathless in an entirely different way. “I can never get tired of watching that.”

Oliver nearly missed a rung.

He caught himself, continued the movement, and very deliberately did not turn around. If he did, she’d see the smile he couldn’t quite stop.

Felicity leaned against the railing, cheeks flushed—not from exertion. Oliver Queen, sweaty, focused, built like a dark, lethal statue carved by violence and discipline. Her fiancé.

“Seriously,” she muttered, mostly to herself. “Dark, sexy Adonis. This feels illegal.”

Oliver dropped from the ladder in one smooth motion and turned to face her. “You were saying something?”

She swallowed. Then grinned. “We need to talk about the wedding.”

That got his full attention.

Oliver stepped closer, posture open, eyes warm despite the shadows still clinging to him. “Okay.”

Felicity gestured wildly, enthusiasm bubbling over. “I just—this is important. I want it to be special. I want something unforgettable. Something I can brag about to all my former classmates who thought I was weird and too geeky and absolutely destined to die alone with a laptop and a cat named Kernel Panic.”

Oliver smirked. “So,” he said mildly, “I’m your trophy husband.”

She nodded without hesitation. “You can bet on it, Mister.”

He laughed—really laughed—and felt something loosen in his chest. God, he loved her. Loved her fire, her insecurity wrapped in confidence, the way she owned every part of herself now.

“I have an idea,” he said.

Her eyes lit up. “That tone means either romance or something wildly impractical.”

“Both,” Oliver admitted. “The Maldives.”

She blinked. Once. Twice.

“…The Maldives.”

“We go,” Oliver continued calmly, as if suggesting a weekend drive. “Check out the scenery. Get inspiration. White sand, open sky. Something beautiful.”

Felicity stared at him, stunned. “Oliver, I’ve never even been outside the States.”

“You should be,” he replied simply.

“But—QC? The city? Everything?”

“Tommy’s VP,” Oliver said. “He can handle QC for a few days. And Roy and Thea can handle the city.”

Felicity searched his face, seeing the certainty there. Not recklessness. Trust.

“You’d really do that?” she asked softly.

“For you?” Oliver said. “Always.”

She smiled then—wide, luminous, full of promise. And for the first time in days, Oliver felt the weight lift.

Just a little.

Enough to remind him that no matter how dark the city became, light still existed. And he was holding it in his arms.

XXX

The QC private jet gleamed under the morning sun, sleek and immaculate, its engines humming softly as ground crew finished their final checks. Felicity stood at the base of the stairs for half a second too long, eyes wide, fingers curling into the strap of her bag as if she needed to physically anchor herself.

“Okay,” she breathed. “This is happening. I am about to become one of those people.”

Oliver paused a step ahead of her and glanced back. “Those people?”

She laughed, half giddy, half disbelieving. “You know. The mysterious, high-society women who casually jet off to the Maldives like it’s no big deal. I don’t even own sunglasses expensive enough for this.”

Oliver smiled, slow and fond. Before the island, this world had been routine for him—private planes, effortless luxury, places so exclusive they stopped feeling real. After the island, it had all felt hollow. Unnecessary. A reminder of a life that hadn’t saved him from anything.

Seeing it through Felicity’s eyes was different.

She climbed the steps, turning in a slow circle once she was inside, taking in the plush seating, the polished wood, the quiet hum of power beneath it all. “Oliver,” she whispered, eyes shining. “This is… wow.”

He watched her instead of the jet, watched the way excitement lit her up from the inside. It made something ache in his chest—in a good way.

Tommy’s voice echoed in his head from earlier that morning. So let me get this straight—you dump a multi-billion-dollar company on me, abandon the city, and vanish to a tropical paradise to ‘get inspired’ for a wedding?

Oliver had only smirked.

You’re VP. Try not to burn anything down.

Tommy had sighed dramatically but promised to hold the fort—right after threatening to send them hourly expense reports out of spite.

Thea, Roy, and John had been worse.

Roy had stared at him like he’d announced he was joining a yoga retreat.
Thea had demanded photographic proof.
John had just shaken his head, smiling. “Didn’t think I’d ever see the day.”

Neither had Oliver.

As the jet taxied down the runway, Felicity settled into the seat beside him, immediately launching into rapid-fire commentary. “Okay, so I may have stayed up a little too late last night, but did you know there are over a thousand islands in the Maldives? And some of them are completely private, and some have underwater restaurants, and—oh!—there’s this one resort—”

Oliver leaned back, letting her words wash over him. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t rush her. He just listened.

This—this—was what he’d almost forgotten. Not the luxury. Not the escape. But the simple act of being present with someone who still saw wonder in the world.

Eventually, her voice softened. Her excitement ebbed into contentment. Her head tipped gently against his shoulder, breath evening out as sleep claimed her mid-sentence.

Oliver shifted carefully, draping a blanket over her without waking her. He looked down at her—his fiancée, brilliant and fearless and still so full of hope—and felt something settle deep in his bones.

The city would survive without him for a few days.

And for once, he allowed himself to believe that maybe—just maybe—he deserved this too.

XXX

Twenty hours after leaving Starling City, the jet finally touched down.

Oliver stepped off first, shoulders loose, posture easy, looking infuriatingly perfect in a way that suggested jet lag had personally decided not to apply to him. He inhaled once, slow and steady, eyes lifting toward the bright Maldivian sky like this was just another morning.

Behind him, Felicity staggered onto the tarmac.

“Okay,” she muttered, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I would like to officially lodge a complaint with physics, biology, and time itself.”

Oliver turned—and bit back a smile.

Her hair was tangled, her blazer wrinkled, her eyes slightly unfocused with exhaustion. She looked… adorable.

“You’re enjoying this,” she accused, squinting at him. “You look like you just woke up from a refreshing nap. I look like a troll who lost a fight with an airplane.”

Before she could take another step, Oliver swept her up bridal-style.

Felicity screamed. Loudly.

“OLIVER—”

He cut her off with a kiss, deep and unhurried, the kind that stole the air from her lungs and made her forget every complaint she’d rehearsed. When he pulled back, her eyes were wide, her breath gone, her face already flushing.

“You’re beautiful,” he said softly. “And I don’t mind showing you just how beautiful you are. Right here. In the airport.”

Her brain short-circuited.

Her face turned scarlet. “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?” She smacked his chest reflexively. “Do not even think about that!”

Oliver’s smile turned slow and dangerous. “Felicity, I’m a billionaire. I can have this runway cleared in minutes if I choose to.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Either it was going to explode—or her face was going to glow bright enough to guide incoming flights.

“Put me down,” she hissed, mortified and flustered and very aware of her surroundings.

Oliver only chuckled and carried her straight to the waiting car on the tarmac, setting her gently inside before sliding in after her.

The door shut. The engine started. And Felicity promptly climbed into his lap, burying her face against his chest.

“You did that on purpose,” she muttered, trying very hard to slow her heartbeat. “I’m going to get revenge.”

Oliver rested his chin lightly on her head, arms secure around her. “I’m looking forward to it.”

She peeked up at him, eyes narrowed. “You should be afraid.”

“I am,” he said honestly.

The drive passed in a blur of turquoise water and palm-lined roads. When they arrived at the hotel, Felicity finally lifted her head—and froze.

“Oh.”

The five-star resort rose before them like something unreal. White stone, open air, sunlight reflecting off water so blue it barely seemed real.

The concierge greeted them warmly and led them through polished halls and open terraces to the penthouse suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the ocean. The beach stretched endlessly below, lush and untouched.

Felicity wandered from room to room, wide-eyed, touching everything, asking questions, marveling at the view like a child discovering magic for the first time.

Oliver followed behind her, silent and content, watching the way wonder softened her features.

XXX

Felicity’s suitcase exploded.

Not literally—though Oliver wouldn’t have been surprised—but in the way only Felicity Smoak could manage. Clothes were laid out in precise piles, chargers coiled and recoiled, notebooks stacked, unstacked, then stacked again. Her tablet sat propped open on the bed, scrolling through color palettes and bullet-pointed lists at alarming speed.

Oliver leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the familiar signs of overthinking gather momentum.

“Okay,” Felicity said rapidly, not looking at him, “so I made lists, but before you panic, they’re good lists. Helpful lists. Necessary lists.”

“Of course they are,” Oliver said calmly.

She shot him a grateful glance and continued. “We need to consider food pairings first—because food sets the tone, Oliver. Like, do we want elegant and understated or bold and memorable? And wine matters. Red versus white is not just a preference, it’s a statement.”

Oliver nodded, listening. Really listening.

“And scenery—oh god, scenery—because water reflects color differently at sunset, so if we choose blues and silvers versus greens and creams it changes everything. And flowers! Flowers are basically living metaphors, which is terrifying when you think about it—”

She finally paused, breathless, eyes flicking up to him. “You’re very quiet.”

“I’m here,” Oliver said softly.

Her shoulders eased just a fraction. That was all she needed—the reassurance that she wasn’t too much, that this mattered, that she mattered.

They headed out soon after, the Maldivian sun warm against their skin as they were driven to their first stop: an underground restaurant carved beneath the waterline, glass walls offering a slow, surreal view of marine life drifting past like living art.

“This,” Felicity whispered as they descended, eyes wide, “is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen or the most expensive way to be eaten by a shark.”

Oliver smiled. “I’ve got you covered either way.”

The tasting unfolded course by course—delicate flavors, carefully paired wines, textures that melted on the tongue. Felicity took notes between bites, murmuring excitedly about which dishes would work for the bridal shower versus the rehearsal dinner versus the reception itself.

Oliver watched her, anchored, steady. This was his role now—not the hunter, not the protector—but the constant she could lean on while her mind raced ahead.

Halfway through the meal, his instincts stirred.

Three tables away, two men and a woman sat together, their laughter subdued, movements too controlled. Something about them prickled at the back of his skull. Not overt danger—just wrong.

His jaw tightened. His teeth felt… sensitive. On edge.

He studied them briefly, cataloging details without meaning to—posture, glances, the way one man’s hand never fully relaxed.

Then Felicity reached for his hand, squeezing it lightly. “What do you think?” she asked, eyes bright. “Too rich for the reception, or perfect?”

The tension eased.

Oliver looked back at her, really looked—and whatever shadow had crept in receded.

“This vacation is about us,” he reminded himself silently. Not the Arrow.

He smiled, genuine and warm. “I think it’s perfect.”

Felicity beamed. And Oliver let the world stay small for a while longer.

XXX

By the time they returned to the penthouse, the day had finally caught up with Felicity.

She kicked off her shoes near the door and laughed weakly, rubbing her temples. “I love planning. I do. I just… maybe underestimated how many decisions my brain can make before it stages a rebellion.”

Oliver watched her closely. The way her shoulders sagged. The way her voice lost some of its brightness.

“Come with me,” he said gently.

She blinked. “Where are we going?”

“Trust me.”

He led her into the bathroom—and Felicity stopped short.

The large tub was already filled, steam curling softly into the air. Bath bombs floated, tinting the water with soft color. Flower petals dotted the surface. A small tray nearby held sweets she loved—chocolate, candied fruit, things she rarely let herself indulge in without overthinking.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Oliver…”

“I called ahead,” he said simply. “You’ve been carrying a lot today.”

Her eyes shimmered as she stepped into the bath, the tension melting from her the moment the warm water embraced her. Oliver stayed nearby, quiet, attentive, making sure she had everything she needed. For the first time all day, Felicity let herself stop thinking.

Later, wrapped in a robe and relaxed to the bone, she walked back into the bedroom—and stopped again.

Massage oils sat neatly arranged beside the bed, candles casting soft light across the room.

Her heart squeezed. “You planned this too?”

Oliver nodded. “I wanted you to feel taken care of.”

As his hands worked slow and sure across her shoulders, Felicity exhaled, every lingering knot easing under his touch. He paid attention to her—always did—learning the places where she held stress, the places that made her sigh when he lingered.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her quietly. “All of you.”

She swallowed. “I ate so much today. I just… I feel—”

He leaned closer, his voice steady, certain. “You are not ugly. You are not too much. And you are not defined by a number or a mirror or a bad thought at the end of a long day.”

His hands and words together left no space for doubt to take root. The tension she hadn’t even realized she was carrying finally dissolved.

That night, the world narrowed to just the two of them—connection, reassurance, love spoken without needing words. They held each other, made love again and again, until sleep finally claimed them in the quiet hours before dawn.

For once, the darkness stayed far away.

XXX

Oliver ran before the sun fully climbed the sky.

The humid air filled his lungs as his feet hit the path in a steady rhythm, the ocean a constant presence beside him. Running had always been his way of clearing his head—burning off excess thought, excess memory. Today, it felt different. Lighter.

When he returned to the suite, sweat-damp and breathing evenly, he heard laughter.

Felicity’s laughter.

He followed the sound to the living area, where she sat cross-legged on the couch, phone propped on her knee, hair a wild halo around her shoulders.

“No, I’m serious,” Felicity was saying, grinning. “He’s relaxed. Like… actually relaxed.”

Thea’s voice came through the speaker, incredulous. “I don’t believe you. My brother doesn’t relax. He broods. He glowers. He has a stick permanently lodged—”

Oliver cleared his throat pointedly.

Felicity’s eyes lit up when she saw him. “Speak of the devil.”

Thea gasped theatrically. “Oh my god. Is he there?”

“Yes,” Felicity said cheerfully. “And he just got back from a run. Very sweaty. Very shirtless.”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “Thea.”

“What?” Felicity continued innocently. “I was just telling her your stick is pretty powerful.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then Thea shrieked. “NOPE. NO. Absolutely not. There are things I do not want to know about my brother, and that is at the top of the list.”

Felicity cackled.

“You are the worst,” Thea accused. “I love you, but you are a little shit.”

“Accurate,” Felicity agreed.

“I’m hanging up before I need therapy,” Thea declared. “Bye.”

The call ended.

Felicity collapsed back against the cushions, laughing freely. Oliver shook his head, but his mouth betrayed him with a smile. He leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of her, and kissed her—soft, lingering, familiar.

“Thank you,” she said quietly when they parted.

“For what?”

“For yesterday,” she replied. “For seeing me. For taking care of me. For loving me the way you do.” Her fingers curled into his. “I love you.”

Oliver’s chest tightened in that good, steady way. “I love you too.”

She rose from the couch and walked toward the bathroom, hips swaying deliberately. She glanced back at him over her shoulder, eyes bright with promise.

“Shower’s on,” she said. “I was thinking I might repay you.”

Oliver followed her without hesitation—letting the door close behind them.

XXX

Felicity approached Oliver slowly. She gently took off his clothes and then hers before leading him by hand into the shower and turning it on. She guided Oliver to back the wall and then dropped to her knees in front of him.

“Pretty powerful stick,” said Felicity with a wicked grin.

Taking him in her hand, she closed her mouth around the tip of his member, caressing it with her tongue. Oliver’s head fell back as he moaned her name. Felicity smiled as she continued her ministrations at the tip of his cock, sucking and licking as she slowly stroked him.

Oliver placed his hand on Felicity’s head as if begging her not to keep teasing him. One benefit of their healthy sex life is that Felicity knew Oliver’s limits. She knew just what buttons to press and for how long until Oliver’s restraint snapped. The thought alone was making her ache between her legs.

“Felicity,” moaned Oliver

She slowly licked her way down Oliver’s cock till she got to his balls which she took into her mouth. Her stroking increased just a bit as she sucked and licked his balls. The sensation was slowly driving Oliver crazy.

“Felicity,” groaned Oliver

Leaving his balls, Felicity took as much of Oliver as she could as she increased the speed of her strokes. Deep-throating Oliver was always a difficult experience but Felicity was nothing if not determined to make her man snap. And, boy was he close.

“Felicity,” growled Oliver

There it was. She was close to getting that restraint off. Picking up the pace she started leaving little bites along Oliver’s shaft as she sucked while looking him in the eyes with lust clear in her blue eyes. 

And with a growl Oliver’s restraint snapped. 

He bent down, picked Felicity up by her thighs, slammed her against the wall of the shower and proceeded to drill into her. The speed made Felicity dizzy but she was already soaked so Oliver didn’t have any issues. She held onto his shoulders as he pounded her relentlessly.

“Fuck! Yes Oliver! Fuck yes!! Harder!” 

Her nails dug into his back and Oliver kept drilling into her until she was practically screaming his name in pleasure. After what felt like eternity and two seconds Felicity felt her orgasm coming and based on the pace Oliver was pretty close too.

“Fuck Felicity fuck!”

“Oliver! I’m so close please baby please don’t stop”

Oliver had no intention of stopping as he continued pounding her. Before long they both screamed as their orgasms hit simultaneously. 

“Fuck,” breathed Felicity as she came down from her high. They both took their time to adjust their breathing, smiling at each other like loons.

“You’re evil,” said Oliver as he lowered her to a standing position.

Felicity smirked, “Told you I’d have my revenge.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow, and started tickling her. Felicity squealed and begged Oliver to stop calling him a sore loser.

In that moment, it was just them, no one else.

XXX

Felicity practically vibrated the entire boat ride.

“Okay, so,” she said for the third time, wind whipping her hair as turquoise water stretched endlessly around them, “Fulhadhoo Island is supposed to be one of the most secluded islands in the Maldives. No resorts crowding the shoreline, minimal development, pristine beaches, and—this is important—natural symmetry.”

Oliver smiled faintly, watching the way her excitement transformed her whole face. “Natural symmetry.”

“Yes,” she insisted. “It matters. For photos. For flow. For vibes.”

When they stepped onto the island, Felicity stopped dead.

The beach curved in a perfect crescent, white sand so fine it felt unreal beneath her feet. Palm trees swayed lazily, their shadows dancing across shallow water so clear the coral below looked painted. The ocean shifted in layers of blue—soft aquamarine near the shore, deep sapphire farther out. The air smelled clean, untouched, like the world before anyone had broken it.

“Oh my god,” Felicity breathed.

She turned slowly, taking it all in, hands pressed to her chest. “Oliver… this is even better than the research. This place feels… sacred.”

He watched her fall in love with it, watched the way she imagined something beautiful here—their future, their vows spoken against endless sky.

Then his instincts screamed.

Across the beach, near the tree line, stood the same two men and the woman from the underground restaurant the day before. Their presence hit him like a wrong note in a perfect song. And this time, they weren’t alone. Three additional men flanked them, spread just far enough apart to look casual.

But Oliver knew better.

His jaw tightened. His teeth set on edge again, that same low, animal warning pulsing through him. This wasn’t coincidence. This was something else. Something that didn’t belong.

“Oliver?” Felicity’s voice cut gently through the noise in his head.

He blinked, realizing he’d stopped responding to her entirely. “Sorry.”

She studied him carefully. “You’re not here anymore.”

He hesitated. Fear crept in—that she’d think he was lying, that she’d feel second place to shadows. Slowly, he nodded toward the group.

“Those people,” he said quietly. “I saw three of them yesterday. They don’t feel right.”

Felicity followed his gaze, then looked back at him—not upset, not defensive. Focused.

“Then we should look into them,” she said simply.

Oliver turned to her, genuinely stunned. “You… agree?”

She frowned slightly, offended by the question. “Oliver, I trust your instincts more than anything. If something’s wrong, we don’t ignore it. We find it—before innocent people get hurt.”

Something in his chest shifted. Warm. Solid. Certain.

He reached for her, pulling her close and kissing her deeply, fiercely, right there on the sand. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.

“You are remarkable,” he said quietly.

She smiled. “I know.”

They didn’t linger. Following the group directly would draw too much attention. Instead, they left the island as casually as they’d arrived, the beauty of Fulhadhoo still echoing in Felicity’s eyes even as her mind already shifted into problem-solving mode.

Back at the hotel, Felicity was already reaching for her laptop.

“Let me work my magic,” she said, fingers flexing eagerly. “Then we’ll know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

Oliver watched her, the love and respect in his chest outweighing even the unease curling in his gut.

Whatever this was—he wasn’t facing it alone.

XXX

Felicity didn’t ease into the problem. She dove.

Back in the penthouse, laptop open, tablet synced, phone discarded somewhere behind her, she pulled up the underground restaurant’s internal systems with the ease of muscle memory. Oliver sat nearby, watching her transform—curiosity sharpening into focus, excitement into precision.

“Okay,” she muttered, fingers flying. “Let’s start simple. Time stamps.”

Within seconds, the restaurant’s security feeds filled her screen. She rewound, isolated the table, zoomed in. The three from yesterday were there—two men and the woman—faces clear, movements controlled. She tracked the moment they stood, the moment a server brought the check, the moment payment was processed.

“Got you,” Felicity said quietly.

She pivoted to the financials, tunneling through layers of corporate firewalls until the transaction record surfaced. Her brows knit together.

“…Huh.”

“What?” Oliver asked.

“They paid with a Swiss account,” she said slowly. “Clean. Legitimate. Tied to a European insurance firm.”

“That sounds normal,” Oliver said.

“It would be,” Felicity replied, already pulling up a new window, “if any of them actually worked there.”

She cross-referenced executive rosters, senior management photos, board members. One by one, faces scrolled past. None matched the six they’d seen.

“None of them are registered as senior staff,” she said. “Not even middle management. So how did they get access to that account?”

She leaned back slightly. “Red flag number one.”

Without pausing, she launched another search. Facial recognition, public records, digital footprints. “Okay, fine. Maybe they’re private. But everyone has something. Facebook, LinkedIn, Instagram—” She paused, incredulous. “Everyone at least has Facebook, right?”

The algorithm returned nothing.

Six faces. Zero results.

Felicity’s expression shifted from amused disbelief to sharp concern. “That’s… not normal. That’s red flag number two.”

Oliver felt the warning bell in his chest grow louder. “Ghosts,” he said quietly.

“Professional ones,” Felicity agreed. “To go further, I need more processing power. Serious power.”

“The Quiver,” Oliver said immediately.

He pulled out his phone and dialed.

Thea picked up on the second ring. “Hey, big brother! Calling from paradise already? Should I be offended or impressed?”

Oliver didn’t smile. “We’ve got a situation.”

Thea’s tone shifted instantly. “What kind?”

He explained—brief, precise. Six people. No digital footprints. Access to funds they shouldn’t have.

There was a beat of silence. Then Roy’s voice cut in from her end, amused and incredulous.

“Only Oliver Queen,” Roy snorted. “How do you go on a wedding-planning vacation and somehow trip over an international case?”

Oliver closed his eyes briefly. “Can you and Thea get to the Quiver?”

“Already on our way,” Thea said. “Send what you’ve got.”

As the call ended, Felicity looked up at Oliver, eyes bright with adrenaline and concern. “These people aren’t just shady. They’re deliberate. And that scares me.”

Oliver nodded. “Me too.”

Paradise outside the window remained untouched—sun, sea, endless blue.

But somewhere beneath it, something was moving. And once again, Oliver Queen knew the calm wouldn’t last.

XXX

The call came through less than fifteen minutes later.

Oliver answered immediately, putting it on speaker before Felicity could even reach for it. “What’ve you got?”

Thea’s voice crackled through the room. “I’ve got Roy digging into what Felicity sent over.”

Oliver blinked. “Roy?”

He turned slowly to Felicity, who was very deliberately not looking guilty.

“You’re… letting someone else near your computers?” Oliver asked, genuinely stunned.

Felicity finally looked up, lips twitching. “Yes?”

Oliver stared at her like she’d just announced the end of gravity.

She sighed fondly. “Oliver, I’ve been teaching Roy how to work my systems since he joined the team. Two years ago.”

“…You have?”

“Yes.” She tilted her head. “You really never noticed?”

Oliver opened his mouth. Closed it. Ran a hand through his hair.

Felicity softened. “Hey. Don’t feel bad. Between running QC, being the Arrow, saving the city, and carrying the emotional weight of the universe, you can’t notice everything.”

Still, something in Oliver’s chest tightened. “I should’ve been more present.”

From the speaker, Roy snorted. “Dude. You taught me how to fight like a damn ninja, gave me a home, and haven’t shot me for dating your sister.”

Thea cut in dryly. “Yet.”

Roy continued, “That’s present enough.”

Laughter rippled through the call, easing the tension.

Then Roy’s tone shifted. “Okay. I found something.”

Oliver straightened. “Go.”

“I ran the faces and locations through the A.R.G.U.S. database,” Roy said. “Turns out the Maldives has been flagged before. A lot.”

Felicity leaned closer to the phone.

“There’s chatter about mercenaries using the islands as a dumping ground,” Roy continued. “Bodies. Evidence. Anything criminals want to disappear without a trace.”

Thea added quietly, “There’s a name that keeps coming up.”

Oliver’s jaw set. “Which is?”

“The Undertaker,” Roy said. “Apparently, if you pay him enough, people stop existing. A.R.G.U.S. hasn’t been able to touch him—jurisdiction issues, diplomatic red tape, the usual.”

Felicity’s lips curved into a sharp, delighted smirk. “Too bad for them.”

Oliver glanced at her.

“The Arrow doesn’t have a jurisdiction,” she finished.

Something dark and satisfied settled behind Oliver’s eyes. “Roy, send me everything you’ve got on the Undertaker. Every scrap.”

“Already compiling it,” Roy replied.

Thea hesitated, then asked, “You’ve got your gear, right?”

Before Oliver could answer, Felicity said brightly, “Yes.”

Oliver turned to her again. “You packed my gear?”

She shrugged. “I think a lot.”

He didn’t argue. He just pulled her close and kissed her—quick, grateful, fierce.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Outside, the ocean remained calm, endless blue stretching to the horizon.

But somewhere beneath that beauty, a man called the Undertaker was operating—cleaning up the sins of monsters who believed distance and money could keep them safe.

They were wrong.

XXX

The map glowed softly in the Quiver’s mirrored feed, satellite imagery layered with data streams from A.R.G.U.S., Interpol, and the FBI. Felicity stood at the center of it all, Roy flanking her, both of them working in perfect rhythm.

“Okay,” Felicity said, zooming in. “We’re looking for isolation, water access, and plausible deniability. Somewhere private enough to hide bodies—but public enough that people coming and going won’t raise alarms.”

Roy nodded, pulling up logistics records. “Got it. And I just hit something.”

He highlighted a cluster of shipments.

“Industrial-grade decomposition accelerants,” Roy continued. “Deep-clean solvents. Neutralizers. Stuff you don’t buy unless you’re erasing something… or someone.”

The location narrowed.

A small, privately owned marina compound on the edge of a populated island—luxury docks in front, service routes in back, constant tourist traffic nearby to blur faces and timelines. Boats came and went at all hours.

Felicity exhaled slowly. “That’s him.”

XXX

Night fell quietly over the Maldives.

Oliver finished gearing up in silence, movements precise and ritualistic. When Felicity looked at him, her expression was steady—but her eyes gave her away.

“There’s something you need to know,” she said. “That place? It’s a digital dead zone. Internal servers. Hardwired systems. No external access points.”

“No overwatch,” Oliver said calmly.

“I won’t be able to see you,” she admitted. “No comms. No cameras. Nothing.”

He stepped closer, resting his forehead against hers. “I’ll be careful.”

She nodded once, trusting him even when every instinct screamed otherwise.

And then he was gone.

XXX

Oliver approached the compound slowly, methodically, letting the night speak to him.

Motion sensors ringed the perimeter—infrared, pressure-based, overlapping fields designed to funnel intruders into kill zones. He mapped them in his head, breath steady, heart rate controlled.

Step. Pause. Roll.

He moved through blind spots measured in inches, timing his progress between sensor sweeps. At one point, he froze mid-crouch for a full thirty seconds as a patrol passed close enough that he could hear the fabric of their uniforms shift.

No mistakes.

When he reached the outer wall, Oliver drew an arrow from his quiver—sleek, matte black, housing a scrambler Felicity had designed months ago for a scenario she’d hoped would never come.

He fired.

The arrow struck the camera housing cleanly. Instantly, the system looped—five minutes of frozen footage replaying perfectly, hiding his presence entirely.

Oliver scaled the wall and dropped silently into the compound.

His senses flared the moment his boots touched the ground.

People. Multiple heartbeats. Different rhythms. Guards. Workers. Someone else—deeper inside—still and watchful.

Oliver straightened slightly, eyes hard beneath the hood.

He was in the right place.

And somewhere ahead, the Undertaker was about to learn that disappearing people had consequences.

XXX

The first guard never heard him.

Oliver dropped from the shadowed rafters, hand clamping over the man’s mouth as a precise strike to the carotid stole consciousness in seconds. He lowered the body gently, already moving as the second guard rounded the corner.

Two arrows.
One ricochet.
A soft thud.

The compound was designed for intimidation—floodlights, cameras, layered patrols—but it relied on predictability. Routes. Timers. Human error. Oliver exploited all of it. He ghosted through corridors, using sound against them—knocking a shell casing to draw one guard while he dismantled another from behind. A chokehold here. A pressure-point strike there.

By the time alarms should have gone off, half the perimeter was already down.

He moved deeper.

A central hall opened before him, polished concrete and glass walls revealing a lounge-like space where six people sat around a long table—two men, a woman he recognized, and three others. Calm. Controlled. Waiting.

The Undertaker’s inner circle.

Oliver didn’t announce himself.

The lights went out.

When they came back on—two seconds later—four of them were already on the ground. One tried to draw a weapon; an arrow pinned him to the wall via the throat. Another lunged; Oliver disarmed him with a brutal elbow strike and dropped him with a knee to the temple snapping his neck.

The woman went for the panic button. Oliver caught her wrist mid-motion and twisted until she screamed, then swept her legs out from under her.

Six targets.
Forty-five seconds.

“Stay down,” Oliver said quietly. “Or I start breaking things that don’t heal right.”

She stayed down.

A door slid open at the far end of the hall.

Slow. Deliberate.

The Undertaker stepped out like he owned the night—tall, lean, dressed impeccably, eyes sharp with calculation rather than fear. He carried himself like a man who had never once been held accountable.

“So,” the Undertaker said mildly, surveying the scene. “The Arrow.”

Oliver didn’t reply.

“You know,” the man continued, circling, “I clean up messes. Monsters like you create them.”

Oliver moved.

The fight was vicious and fast—bone on bone, steel on steel. The Undertaker was skilled, trained, ruthless. He fought dirty, used feints and hidden blades, tried to bait Oliver into overcommitting.

It didn’t work.

Oliver absorbed the blows, adapted, then overwhelmed him. A brutal sequence—disarm, knee strike, elbow to the throat, followed by a takedown that rattled the floor. Oliver ended it with his boot on the man’s chest, bow leveled inches from his face.

“You kill innocent people,” Oliver said coldly. “You erase evidence by erasing people.”

The Undertaker laughed weakly. “You think this ends me?”

“No,” Oliver replied. “I think it ends your business.”

The roar of engines cut through the night.

A sleek jet descended onto the compound grounds, landing with surgical precision. The hatch opened—and Artemis stepped out, bow in hand, mask gleaming under the floodlights.

“Nice timing,” Oliver said.

Thea smirked. “You always say that.”

Together, they secured the Undertaker and his inner circle, loading them onto the jet along with servers, drives, chemical stockpiles—everything he’d used to make people disappear.

As the jet lifted off, Thea’s voice crackled over the comms. “Taking them to the secure drop. A.R.G.U.S. will be waiting.”

Oliver watched the compound recede beneath him, the ocean swallowing its secrets at last.

For once, the monsters hadn’t vanished.

They’d been caught.

XXX

The hum of the QC private jet was steady and low, a familiar sound that wrapped around Oliver like muscle memory. Felicity sat curled beside him, tablet forgotten on the seat between them, her head resting against his shoulder as the plane leveled out over open water.

Oliver stared out the window for a long moment before speaking.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

She shifted, looking up at him. “For what?”

“For ruining our vacation,” Oliver said. “You deserved time that didn’t involve mercenaries, dead zones, or me disappearing into the night.”

Felicity blinked—then laughed. Not softly. Genuinely.

“Oliver,” she said, pushing herself upright, “we took down a man who was on four different global most-wanted lists. Four. Do you know how many nerd points that is?”

He frowned slightly.

“As far as I’m concerned,” she continued brightly, “I had a blast.”

That earned a small, incredulous smile from him. “You’re serious.”

“I am,” she said, nodding. “Was it the quiet, beach-only, no-crime fantasy vacation? No. But it was us. And we did something good. I’ll take that.”

Oliver studied her, warmth spreading through his chest. “Did it help?”

“Help with what?”

“The wedding,” he said. “Did this trip give you any inspiration?”

Felicity’s eyes lit instantly. “Oh. Oh yes.”

She leaned forward, energized again. “Maldives. Definitely Maldives. The colors, the water, the light—it felt right. Like… like standing at the edge of something beautiful and choosing it on purpose.”

Oliver didn’t hesitate. “Okay.”

She froze. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he repeated easily. “Let’s do it.”

Her mouth fell open. “Just—like that?”

“I trust you,” Oliver said simply. “And I want whatever makes you happiest.”

For a moment, Felicity couldn’t speak. Then she leaned in and kissed him, slow and full of promise.

Twenty hours later, the jet touched down in Starling City.

As the wheels met the runway, something subtle but profound settled into place. The air felt heavier here. Familiar. Real.

Home.

Felicity let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Oliver felt the same quiet unclenching in his chest—the sense that no matter how far they went, this city still anchored them.

They walked off the plane side by side, hand in hand.

Whatever waited for them next, they would face it here. Together.