Abandoned Railyard – South Glades
10:07 PM
Matt Istook's eyelids fluttered open to a buzzing floodlight and a jackhammer behind his eyes.
The first thing he felt was cold.
The second was metal under his back.
The third was wrong.
He tried to sit up — but his arms didn't move. His legs didn't move.
Panic snapped him fully awake.
"What the—what the hell—?"
He lifted his head just enough to see the silver glint beneath him, the rust-lined grooves stretching off into the dark like veins under skin.
Railroad tracks.
He was tied to the goddamn train tracks.
"Nonononononono—"
A low whistle pierced the air — distant, but unmistakable. A sound that carried through the bones like prophecy.
And then came the shadow.
It stepped into the pool of light like it belonged there. Heavy boots. Dark green leather. The kind of presence that made men confess to crimes they hadn't even committed yet.
The Hood.
Matt's blood turned to ice.
"Oh God—no—wait—wait!"
Arrow said nothing for a beat. Just stood there. Watching.
And then, in that low, even voice — gravel dipped in steel — he said:
"You lied."
Matt's breath caught.
"I—I didn't—look, I didn't do anything—"
"No," Arrow interrupted. "You just helped send an innocent man to die. That's all."
Another train whistle. Closer.
Arrow turned slightly, glancing toward the horizon where faint headlights danced like a slow-coming storm.
"It's 10:12," he said. "The 10:15 to Blüdhaven cuts straight through here. Which means you've got about three minutes to stop lying."
Matt started thrashing. "You can't do this! You're out of your mind—this is—this is insane!"
"You're right," Arrow said. "But it's also just."
"I didn't kill her!" Matt screamed.
Arrow crouched beside him, close enough that Matt could see the faint outline of his jaw beneath the hood. "You didn't have to. You just had to keep quiet. And you did — for a price."
Matt's face twisted in fear and fury. "Brodeur paid me to keep my mouth shut! That's it! I didn't know Camille was gonna die!"
"You knew what she was exposing," Arrow said, rising. "You knew people were getting sick. You knew Brodeur was dumping waste in neighborhoods full of kids."
"I just—" Matt flinched as the tracks began to vibrate. "I just didn't think it would go that far."
"No," Arrow said. "You just didn't think it would come back."
Another whistle. The ground began to hum with the pulse of oncoming steel.
Matt's voice pitched higher. "Okay! Okay, listen—Camille gave me something! A file! Real proof — documents, photos, all of it! You want Brodeur? That's your damn smoking gun!"
Arrow's head tilted. "Where is it?"
"In my office! Desk drawer — left side, bottom — just get me the hell off this thing!"
Arrow stood there for a moment, completely still.
Then he turned his back and started walking away.
Matt screamed.
"What?! No! You got what you wanted — you son of a bitch — YOU GOT WHAT YOU CAME FOR!"
The rumble of the train was thunder now. Lights flared in the distance, cutting through the night like judgment bearing down.
"Come on! COME ON! Don't leave me here!"
Arrow didn't stop.
Matt's breath came in panicked sobs. "You can't just—OH GOD, PLEASE—!"
He screamed until his throat was raw, thrashing like a man possessed. The train's horn split the night, the headlights blinding now, and Matt shut his eyes—
TWANG.
Something snapped beside him.
The ropes fell slack.
He didn't think. He launched himself sideways, rolled across gravel, and tumbled into the dirt just as the train roared past, missing him by feet — maybe inches.
He lay there gasping, face pressed into the dust, his entire body shaking.
After a full minute, he turned over and looked back.
The tracks were empty.
Arrow was gone.
No footsteps. No farewell. No warning.
Just the arrow still embedded in the ground next to the spot where he'd been tied — its shaft quivering in the wake of the train, like it hadn't finished speaking yet.
Matt Istook didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just lay there, hands trembling, whispering the only thing his mind could still form.
"Jesus Christ… he wasn't bluffing…"
—
Laurel's Apartment
11:28 PM
The lights were off when Laurel entered, save for the faint glow of the city leaking through the blinds. She kicked off her heels by the door, rolled the tension from her shoulders, and moved toward the kitchen — already reaching for the wine she swore she wouldn't open.
Then something moved.
Not loudly. Not aggressively. Just enough to make every hair on her neck stand up.
She froze.
"That bottle better be red," a voice said — low, calm, unmistakable.
Laurel turned slowly, hand now at her side, fingers brushing against the pepper spray she'd left by the toaster.
"I really need to stop leaving my windows unlocked," she muttered.
From the shadows, the Arrow stepped forward.
"You really do."
She squinted. "Do you just… live in ventilation shafts, or is this an exclusive stalking arrangement?"
"I prefer the term 'strategic recon.'"
"Uh-huh." She grabbed the pepper spray anyway. "And how many restraining orders does strategic recon usually rack up?"
He didn't smile — not visibly — but there was a shift at the corner of his mouth, subtle and dry.
"I brought you something," he said, pulling a thick manila file from under his jacket.
"Oh good," she said. "I was hoping for something romantic. Like court-admissible evidence."
He held it out. "Compliments of Matt Istook."
Laurel took it carefully, eyebrows lifting as the weight settled in her hands.
It wasn't just paper.
It was potential. Consequence. Salvation.
Her fingers flipped through the first few pages: technical schematics, lab reports, signed complaints. Camille's handwriting — shaky, but damning.
She looked up slowly. "This is everything."
"It's enough," he said. "To save Declan. To bury Brodeur."
She closed the file like it might disintegrate. "As an attorney, I never would've gotten my hands on this. Not without subpoenas, leaks, or some intern willing to risk a felony for justice."
"I'm not big on waiting," he replied.
"Yeah, I've noticed," she said, glancing at the window. "You always break in when you're in the mood for civic engagement?"
"I knock," he said. "You just don't hear it."
She huffed out a laugh. "You're insufferable."
He shrugged. "I'm effective."
There was a long pause — the kind that feels heavier than silence should.
"I used to believe the law fixed everything," she said quietly.
He didn't interrupt.
"I thought the system worked — maybe not perfectly — but eventually. You keep pushing, keep fighting, and the truth comes out."
She stared down at the folder. "But this… this shouldn't exist. This kind of evidence — hidden, suppressed, buried under NDAs and dirty money. I never stood a chance at getting it."
Arrow folded his arms. "But you were still trying."
She looked up. "Because I had to believe it mattered."
"And now?" he asked.
Laurel's mouth tightened. She hesitated, then said, "Now I think too many people in this city only care about themselves. About profit. Image. Power. They step over people like Declan without even noticing."
She stepped closer to him, the file pressed to her chest like armor.
"And I think we need someone who does care. Someone who doesn't wait for the system to fix itself. Someone who goes out there and... changes the rules."
Her voice dropped to something gentler.
"Someone like you."
He didn't react at first.
Then, finally: "I thought you believed the law was sacred."
Laurel nodded. "I still want to believe that."
He watched her a moment longer. "But?"
She held up the file, chin high. "But tonight, I believe in this. I believe this evidence can save a man's life. And I believe it only exists because you were willing to do what I couldn't."
His jaw flexed. "That's not a compliment."
"It's not a condemnation either."
He stepped closer — one step. Enough to make the room feel smaller.
"You don't agree with what I do," he said. "Not really."
Laurel's expression softened, but her voice stayed firm. "No. But I can't pretend it doesn't matter. I can't pretend you don't."
Another silence. Another heartbeat between them.
Then he turned, moving toward the window, the city wind teasing the corner of his hood.
She watched him, unsure if she wanted him to stay or disappear.
"Hey," she said.
He looked back.
"Thank you."
The mask didn't shift. His expression didn't crack. But his posture… relaxed. Just a little.
"You're welcome," he said.
And then he was gone — out the window, swallowed by the shadows like he'd never been there at all.
Laurel stood alone, file in hand, heart rattling with too many thoughts.
The city was still broken.
But maybe — just maybe — it didn't have to stay that way.
Not with him out there.
Not with her in here.
And not when the two of them were finally starting to see the city the same way.
—
Outside Starling City Courthouse – Downtown
8:31 AM
The courthouse plaza was a swarm of Monday chaos — reporters in overpriced suits, interns juggling coffee trays like Olympic hopefuls, and cops trying to pretend their radios weren't screeching. Laurel Lance cut through it all with the momentum of someone on a mission. Heels sharp. Hair pulled back like armor. A manila folder tucked under her arm like a live grenade.
She was halfway up the steps when the voice caught her.
"Laurel!"
She didn't stop. But she did sigh.
Quentin Lance stood at the bottom, looking like every bad feeling she didn't have time to unpack — worn leather jacket, black coffee, and that worried-dad squint that made her want to both hug him and scream into traffic.
He held up a hand like a peace offering.
"Got a minute?"
"Not really," she said. "Filing deadline's in—" she checked her phone, "—twenty-nine minutes and forty seconds."
He nodded toward the folder. "That for the Declan case?"
Laurel tightened her grip. "Yep."
"Funny thing," Lance said, taking a casual sip of his coffee. "Matt Istook walked into the precinct this morning. Filed a report."
Laurel's expression didn't twitch. "Did he?"
"Says the Arrow harassed him last night. Tied him to train tracks, believe it or not. Said he was nearly run over."
Laurel blinked. "Sounds traumatic."
Lance stepped up one stair, voice low and flat. "What's funny is, I gave you Istook's name yesterday."
There it was.
Laurel met his eyes. "You think I gave it to him?"
"I think you're a smart girl with a bad poker face," he said, tone edging into something harder. "And I think you should stop insulting my intelligence."
She crossed her arms. "I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to." He jabbed his coffee in her direction. "You've got that look. Same one your mom had when she claimed she wasn't smoking behind the garage."
"Maybe I was just processing the fact that an innocent man's about to die," she snapped.
Quentin's jaw ticked. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Turn this into a morality play," he said. "You working with this guy now? The Hood?"
"He's not a criminal—"
"He's a murderer, Laurel."
"He's trying to save someone's life!"
"He's breaking the law! And if you're helping him, that makes you an accessory—"
"You mean like the cops who helped Brodeur cover up a chemical dumping scandal that killed people?" Her voice was sharp now, brittle. "Like the detectives who overlooked Camille Declan's whistleblowing to fast-track a conviction?"
Lance stared at her. His mouth tightened into a line so thin it could've drawn blood.
"You blaming this on me?"
"I'm blaming a system that failed Peter Declan," she said, eyes blazing. "And I'm blaming everyone who let it happen because they didn't want to dig too deep."
He took a step up. They were face to face now, standing toe-to-toe on the public steps like it was a courtroom of their own.
"I asked you how you got this case," he said. "You lied to me."
Laurel faltered. Just a second.
"I didn't lie," she said quietly. "I… omitted."
Quentin scoffed. "Don't do that. Don't twist words. You knew if you told me the truth, I'd shut it down."
"Because you'd rather protect your case files than fix a broken one."
"No," he growled. "Because I thought you were better than this. I thought you didn't lie. Not to me."
Laurel flinched. There was no hiding it this time.
"I'm not proud of it," she admitted. "But I am proud of this." She held up the folder. "I've got evidence now. Real evidence. Camille Declan was murdered because she tried to expose Brodeur. And Peter's going to die for it unless I do something."
"And what?" Lance demanded. "This file magically showed up in your inbox? Delivered by an arrow?"
"I didn't ask for it," she said.
"But you used it," he shot back. "And now you're standing there, pretending you're still the same girl who believed in due process and the chain of custody. What happened to that Laurel?"
"She still exists," Laurel said. "But she's standing in front of a man who keeps calling the person who saved her case a criminal."
Lance's jaw worked, but no sound came out. He looked down at the folder, like he could will it to disappear.
"You're smarter than this," he said finally. "You've always been the one who did things the right way."
Laurel's voice softened. "I still want to. But sometimes the right way doesn't work fast enough. And people die waiting."
"You sound just like your sister."
Laurel froze.
The sentence hit her like a slap — not because it was cruel. Because it wasn't.
"No," she said. "Sara broke the rules for adrenaline. For escape. I'm breaking them because someone has to."
Lance looked away. For the first time, he didn't have a retort ready.
"This isn't over," he said finally, voice low.
Laurel straightened. "No. It's just beginning."
And she turned, heels echoing like a gavel on granite as she climbed the steps.
Lance watched her go, holding his coffee like it might keep his hands from shaking. He didn't know whether to arrest the man in the hood… or thank him for lighting a fire in his daughter he hadn't seen since the day she was born.
—
Starling City Courthouse – Courtroom 3B
9:02 AM
The air in the courtroom was tight enough to cut. A slow, stretching silence pressed down on the pews, broken only by the soft creak of Declan's shackles as he shifted on the defendant's bench.
At the podium, Laurel Lance stood like a powder keg — file open, voice steady, heels planted.
"The contents of this file," she said, enunciating each syllable like a chisel against stone, "include corroborated evidence of illegal toxic waste dumping, internal documentation from Brodeur Chemical, and sworn testimony from a whistleblower, Camille Declan. All of which were concealed from the defense during discovery."
She lifted her gaze to the judge — hard, unwavering.
"And all of which directly implicate Jason Brodeur in a conspiracy to cover up criminal negligence that resulted in at least one death. Camille's."
A beat passed.
"Peter Declan's wife."
From the gallery, someone sucked in a breath. Declan sat frozen, eyes locked on her like she was the only lifeline in the building.
"I'm requesting an emergency stay of execution," Laurel continued. "Pending review of this new evidence."
A rustle. And then—
"Your Honor," came the oily drawl from the defense table, "I think I've finally figured it out."
Jared Swanstrom stood, adjusting his cufflinks like he was on the red carpet. He was all sharp lines and smugness, the kind of man who'd compliment your tie while stabbing you in the back — with a monogrammed letter opener.
"Laurel Lance didn't go to law school. She majored in theatrics. Possibly screenwriting."
He turned to the gallery with a patronizing smile, then faced the bench.
"I mean, this is straight out of a telenovela. Secret files? Hidden whistleblowers? A heroic last-minute save?" He gestured toward the folder on the podium. "Your Honor, what we have here isn't evidence — it's fan fiction."
Laurel's eyes narrowed.
"What we have," she said icily, "is a witness who admitted — under duress — that he took bribes to suppress legally relevant information. That's perjury. That's obstruction. That's a motive."
Swanstrom snorted.
"A panicked witness babbling after a night with Starling City's favorite sociopath-in-green is hardly admissible. Ms. Lance's 'source' was almost hit by a train last night. Apparently, the vigilante tied him to the tracks." He turned to the judge, hands raised in mock incredulity. "This is what she's building her motion on. Fear and fairy tales."
"Mr. Swanstrom," Judge Myers said — low, gruff, and annoyed, like someone who had already finished this cup of coffee and deeply regretted not bringing a second.
Swanstrom shut his mouth, but not before flashing Laurel a smirk so smug it deserved jail time.
Judge Myers leaned back slightly, peering over the top of his glasses.
"Ms. Lance."
Laurel straightened. "Yes, Your Honor."
He tapped the folder with a thick finger.
"Even assuming the chain of custody here weren't a hot mess — which it is — the standard for emergency relief under habeas corpus is clear. You're asking me to halt an execution based on late-discovered documents and an uncorroborated confession made while the witness thought he was about to become track décor."
He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Ours isn't a court of justice, Ms. Lance. It's a court of law. And under the law, this…" He gestured to the file again. "...isn't sufficient. Your motion is denied."
The words hit like a body blow. Not loud. But devastating.
Laurel didn't speak. Not right away. Her knuckles whitened on the folder, her jaw locked tight. But she didn't blink. Didn't waver.
She simply closed the folder, turned it like a shield against her chest — and nodded once.
"Understood, Your Honor," she said, though her voice was quieter now. Not defeated. Just burning.
The gavel came down. Not with drama — with weariness.
"Court is adjourned."
Chairs scraped. Papers shuffled. The noise rushed back in, but Laurel didn't move. Not until Jared Swanstrom sidled up beside her with that same irritating aura of someone who thought he'd just outplayed God.
"Tough room, huh?" he murmured. "Still — good hustle. Very Erin Brockovich meets junior prom."
She turned to him slowly, eyes gleaming with something far sharper than outrage.
"You know what I love about men like you?" she asked sweetly.
Swanstrom blinked. "I'm sure I don't—"
"You always think the game ends when you win the point," she said. "But it's not over. Because I've got the thread now. And I'm going to pull."
Her voice dropped to a whisper — intimate and lethal.
"Brodeur. The waste. The kickbacks. The bodies. You've buried so much under NDAs and money you've forgotten what guilt smells like. But I haven't. And I'm going to follow the stench until it leads me to every rotten thing you ever touched."
Swanstrom's smile faltered.
Laurel leaned in just a breath closer, her heels planted like verdicts.
"When I'm done," she murmured, "you'll be the one begging for procedural mercy."
She stepped back, gave him the same polite nod one might offer a cockroach before stomping it, and turned away.
Jared didn't speak.
And Laurel Lance didn't look back.
—
Parking Garage – Lower Level, Starling City Courthouse
9:21 AM
The underground lot was concrete purgatory — gray, grimy, and humming with that mechanical buzz that never quite shut off. Fluorescents flickered like they were nervous. Oil stains bled beneath idle cars like crime scene echoes. Jared Swanstrom moved through it like he didn't belong there — because he didn't.
Pinstriped. Polished. Purposeful.
He adjusted the lapels of his coat, straightened his cuffs, and approached the matte black Lincoln waiting in the shadows like a co-conspirator. The back passenger window hissed down an inch — just enough to signal without acknowledging. Like royalty inviting the help.
Swanstrom opened the door and slid in without speaking.
Jason Brodeur didn't look up.
He sat in the far seat, profile half-lit by the dashboard glow, one hand curled around the wolf's-head handle of a custom cane he didn't need. His suit was charcoal. His silence was darker.
"She's pulling on it," Brodeur muttered, staring dead ahead. "Declan's lawyer."
Swanstrom sighed and set his briefcase down gently, like it might explode. "Laurel Lance isn't a threat. She's an idealist with good hair. They always burn out by mid-season."
"She's not burning out," Brodeur said. "She's getting louder. That stunt in court — standing there like Lady Justice with better lighting? She was ready to throw me under the train."
Swanstrom smirked faintly. "Irony, considering one almost hit her source last night."
That got Brodeur's attention. He turned his head, finally looking at him.
"I'm not joking, Jared. She's not scared of you. She's not scared of losing. She's scared of not trying. And that makes her dangerous."
Swanstrom tilted his head. "Are we talking about Laurel or are you projecting again?"
Brodeur leaned in, the leather seat creaking like it had opinions. "She's digging, and she's getting close. Camille's name came up in open court. If she finds the EPA reports or those missing memos from Distribution…"
Swanstrom lifted a hand. "Then we do what we always do. Deny, delay, destroy. This isn't new territory."
Brodeur's laugh was dry. Sharp. "You still think this is a deposition, Jared. It's not. This is a war."
"She filed a motion, Jason."
"She filed a shot," Brodeur snapped, voice suddenly sharp enough to draw blood. "And if we don't take her seriously, we're gonna be the ones bleeding."
Swanstrom's jaw tensed. He leaned back, crossed his legs.
"You're panicking."
"No," Brodeur said coolly. "I'm planning."
He reached into his coat, pulled out a small silver pillbox, and clicked it open — not for drugs, just habit. Inside were cufflinks. Gold. Personalized. He didn't wear them. Just liked knowing they were there.
"She's going to Iron Heights," he said, voice soft now. "You know that, right? She'll want to reassure Declan. Let him know she's still fighting. Maybe even tell him she's got new leverage."
Swanstrom frowned. "And?"
Brodeur's gaze didn't waver. "I've got friends in Iron Heights."
Swanstrom went still.
"Jason," he said carefully, "she's the daughter of a decorated officer. You touch her, and the entire city lights up."
Brodeur smiled.
"You think I want her dead?" he asked. "God, no. That makes martyrs. I want her… discouraged."
Swanstrom laughed once — dry, brittle, no humor. "You mean roughed up."
"I mean reminded," Brodeur said. "That she's not the only one who can break rules."
Swanstrom exhaled. "You really want to send muscle into a maximum-security prison to 'remind' a public official she's mortal?"
"I want this done before she finds the smoking gun. Before she links Camille's death to Brodeur Chemical. Before she gets a jury."
A long pause.
"You bring someone else in," Swanstrom said slowly, "and I can't protect you. Not from the press. Not from the D.A. Not from what comes next."
Brodeur turned his eyes back to the windshield.
"You're not here to protect me anymore," he said.
Swanstrom blinked. "Excuse me?"
Brodeur tapped the cane twice on the floor. The driver started the car without being told.
"You did your job," Brodeur said. "You got the motion denied. Kept me off the record. Now it's time for a different kind of cleanup."
"You're cutting me out."
"No," Brodeur said. "I'm evolving."
Swanstrom stared at him. "You bring in the wrong people, Jason, and they won't stop with reminders. And if she dies—"
"If she dies," Brodeur interrupted, "she dies a cautionary tale. If she doesn't, she learns to keep her distance. Either way… problem solved."
"You sound like a man already on trial," Swanstrom muttered.
Brodeur's smile didn't touch his eyes.
"Not yet," he said. "But she's trying to make me one. So yes, Jared… we're done here."
The car eased forward, rolling out of the shadows.
Swanstrom sat very still, the chill of the leather now soaked into his bones.
Jason Brodeur didn't say another word.
And Jared Swanstrom didn't dare ask what came next.
—
Starling City – Courthouse Alley
9:31 AM
The courthouse doors slammed shut behind her like a final verdict.
Laurel Lance stepped into the alley, each heel strike on cracked pavement echoing like a gavel. The weight of the folder in her arms didn't compare to the one in her chest — heavy, pulsing, pissed off.
The air back here was damp, chill, and quieter than it should've been.
She wasn't surprised when the Arrow dropped in behind her, silent as a shadow. He landed in a low crouch, his hood catching the light just enough to turn his face into a mask of angles and shadow.
"Laurel," he said.
She didn't turn. "If you're here to say 'you tried your best,' don't. I might actually throw this folder at your head."
"I'm not here to comfort you."
She pivoted, finally meeting his gaze. His eyes were the only part of his face not swallowed by shadow — and they were focused, flinty.
"What do you need to free Peter Declan?"
She exhaled. It wasn't a sigh — it was a breath she'd been holding since the gavel came down.
"At this point?" she said. "A miracle. Or a signed confession from Jason Brodeur. Preferably notarized, but I'll take blood if that's what's on the table."
Arrow didn't move. But something shifted in him — the kind of stillness predators get before they pounce.
"I brought you the name," she added. "You wanted proof. That file? It's everything. Sworn testimony. Memos. Camille's statement. Brodeur's got his hands so deep in this cover-up he might as well have autographed the body bag."
His gaze never left hers.
"And the judge still shut it down."
She nodded. Once. Sharp.
"Apparently we don't do justice here," she said, bitter. "Just technicalities and smug men in expensive suits."
"Then we take it out of their hands," he said.
Laurel arched an eyebrow. "Oh, good. Vigilante justice. That always ends well."
"Do you want to save Declan or not?"
His tone was steady. Not cruel. Just… certain.
She stared at him for a beat. Then — the fight in her softened just enough to make room for frustration.
"I hate that I need you for this," she muttered.
"I know."
He reached behind his back and pulled an arrow from his quiver — graphite black, glinting steel.
"And I hate that you're the only one who might actually get results."
"I'm very effective," he said.
"Irritatingly so."
He fired. The grappling arrow sang through the air and embedded into the rooftop ledge above. The cable snapped taut with a mechanical hiss.
She crossed her arms, tilting her head.
"Where are you going?"
He turned, half-silhouetted in the flickering alley light. His voice came low and resolute.
"To get you that confession."
He stepped toward the line, hand on the zipline trigger.
Laurel called after him, "And what happens if Brodeur doesn't want to confess?"
Arrow looked over his shoulder.
"Then I'll remind him what's waiting for him if he doesn't."
With a smooth motion, he shot up the line — cloak trailing behind him like smoke — and vanished into the skyline.
Laurel stood alone, folder clutched tight, hair stirred by the wind left in his wake.
She stared after him for a long moment, eyes burning with something that wasn't just fire anymore.
This time… she didn't stop him.
She didn't want to.
—
Queen Consolidated – Walter Steele's Office
4:02 PM
The sun slanted low through the wide western windows of Walter Steele's private cabin — a quieter space tucked away from the boardroom brutality of Queen Consolidated's main offices. Here, the walls were wood-paneled, the chairs deep leather, and the silence heavy with thought. The kettle on the credenza puffed quiet steam, long since forgotten.
Walter sat at his desk, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, a stack of ledger printouts in front of him like they were clues in a murder mystery only he could solve. He didn't look up when the door opened.
"So," Felicity Smoak announced, sliding in sideways like a caffeinated ninja with a laptop, two folders, and a venti iced coffee clutched precariously in one hand, "good news, bad news, and weird news. And plot twist — they're all the same news."
Walter arched an eyebrow without looking away from the documents. "Let's start with weird."
Felicity flopped into the chair across from him, crossing her legs and sipping from her neon-pink straw like it was a high-stakes negotiation prop. "Okay, so remember the biotech company Moira claimed to have invested in — Jansen Ralston, alleged genius, startup with potential, etcetera, etcetera?"
He glanced at her now, finally intrigued. "I recall."
She opened her laptop with a flourish. "Yeah, it doesn't exist."
Walter blinked. "Come again?"
"Poof. Gone. Ghosted from reality. No incorporation docs, no employee profiles, no digital footprint. I ran searches through every database short of the ones that trigger Homeland Security flags — and nothing. Not even a Twitter handle."
He frowned, his tone low and measured. "Then where did the money go, Felicity?"
She turned the screen to face him. A web of transfer nodes glowed in gentle red.
"It went on a little vacation," she said. "Bounced through a few local accounts — domestic banks, all standard. But then it detoured through a lovely offshore holding structure in the Caymans and reappeared inside an LLC named Tempest."
Walter said the name like it had weight. "Tempest."
"Yup." Felicity nodded. "No Queen Consolidated tag. No standard shell company pattern. It's like someone went to school on how to disappear a corporation."
Walter's jaw tightened slightly. "And it's not in any of our databases."
"Nope. Not in the Queen Consolidated umbrella, not under any of the board's known assets, and definitely not in the portfolio Moira submitted to Compliance last quarter. It's like the thing was born to be invisible."
He tapped the desk twice, his go-to gesture when mentally triangulating a threat. "How'd you find it?"
"Remember that little glitch you found in the ledger?" Felicity pointed at his printouts. "The one that triggered this whole rabbit hole? Well, the same night that line item was accessed, Tempest LLC bought a warehouse in Starling City."
Walter sat up straighter. "A warehouse."
"Big one," she said, dragging a window across her screen. "Industrial zone. Rail access. Legit title transfer, handled through a Delaware firm, clean paperwork. But when you dig deep — and I mean digital trench warfare deep — it traces back to the exact offshore account where our mystery money landed."
He narrowed his eyes at the screen. "Who signed the title?"
"Shell nominee. One of those corporate directors who files more paperwork than Santa's elves on caffeine. Totally clean record. Except... I tracked a few of their online ISP footprints. They pinged from Starling."
Walter's expression darkened. "Someone local."
"Someone careful," Felicity added. "But not careful enough. I'm tracing IP echoes now, but it'll take a bit. Whoever set this up didn't want breadcrumbs — they wanted fog."
He leaned back, hands steepled. "Moira said she vouched for Ralston. She insisted it was a private seed investment."
"Which begs the question... was she lied to, or is someone using her name to run dark money ops out of your asset pool?"
Walter didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the map now, where the warehouse blinked like a forgotten heartbeat.
Felicity leaned in with a sheepish grin. "Also, just a completely inappropriate side note — if you and Moira ever do decide to get married, I feel like she'd be the kind of woman who hyphenates. You know, Moira Queen-Steele. Sounds like the CEO of a luxury yacht company and an international jewel thief."
Walter gave her a slow, dry stare. "Your timing is, as always, impeccable."
"Right. Too soon. Dialing it back. Serious faces."
He returned his attention to the screen. "Start pulling traffic footage around that warehouse. Log comings and goings. Cross-check with city security cameras, if you can access them without setting off any alarms."
Felicity's face lit up like Christmas. "Oh, we're doing urban surveillance now? Finally. Something juicy."
He leaned forward. "And Felicity..."
She looked up.
"Be careful."
She paused, then gave him a small, crooked smile. "Careful is my middle name."
He arched an eyebrow.
"Okay, it's Megan. But careful's in the top five."
She gathered her things, slurped the last of her iced coffee like a warrior preparing for battle, and hustled out.
Walter stared at the screen a moment longer.
Tempest LLC – Starling City Holding File
He opened a new window.
Query: Queen, Moira. Cross-reference: Tempest.
He hit "Search."
---
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