CNRI LEGAL OFFICE — EVENING
The CNRI offices hummed with that particular late-night energy that came from fluorescent lights working overtime and coffee that had been reheated three times. The city sprawled beyond the tall windows, its thousand lights twinkling like scattered diamonds, but inside the cramped office space, the atmosphere felt heavy with the weight of too much work and too little funding.
Joanna sat hunched over her desk, her dark hair falling in waves around her face as she squinted at a printout. Her usually bright demeanor had dimmed to something approaching dread as she traced the numbers with her finger, double-checking figures she already knew by heart.
"Please tell me I'm reading this wrong," she said without looking up, her voice carrying that particular tone of someone who already knew the answer but was hoping against hope. "Please tell me this is some kind of accounting error or cosmic joke or—"
"It's not wrong." Laurel's voice cut through the room like a blade, sharp and final. She stood behind Joanna's chair, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, her jaw set in that stubborn line that meant she was either about to fight someone or fight the world. Tonight, it looked like it might be both.
Joanna finally looked up, her dark eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and panic. "Laurel, this is bad. This is really, really bad."
"Define bad," Laurel said, though her tone suggested she already knew exactly how bad it was.
"Stagg Industries. Our biggest donor. They're pulling their funding. All of it. Effective immediately." Joanna waved the paper like it might spontaneously combust and solve all their problems. "We're talking about sixty percent of our operating budget, Laurel. Sixty percent."
Laurel snatched the paper from her hands and read it again, her green eyes scanning every word as if she could will it to say something different. But the numbers remained stubbornly unchanged.
"Simon Stagg," she said finally, her voice dripping with disdain. "That self-serving, corporate—"
"Hey," Joanna interrupted, glancing nervously toward the door. "Walls have ears, remember? And some of those ears belong to people who could make our lives even more difficult."
Laurel's laugh was bitter. "More difficult than losing our funding? More difficult than having to lay off half our staff? More difficult than telling our clients that we can't help them anymore because some billionaire decided we were making him look bad?"
"Okay, okay, point taken," Joanna said, holding up her hands in surrender. "But what are we supposed to do? I mean, seriously, what's the plan here? Because I've got student loans that make the national debt look like pocket change, and I really, really need this job."
Laurel was quiet for a long moment, staring out the window at the city below. When she finally spoke, her voice was steady, determined.
"We keep fighting," she said simply. "We find other donors. We cut costs. We work twice as hard for half the pay. We do whatever it takes."
"Laurel—"
"No." Laurel turned back to face her, and there was something fierce in her expression, something that reminded Joanna exactly why she'd wanted to work at CNRI in the first place. "This is what we do, Joanna. We fight for people who can't fight for themselves. We don't give up just because some corporate suit decides we're inconvenient."
Joanna opened her mouth to respond, but the front door chimed cheerfully, cutting through the tension like a knife through butter. Both women turned to see Tommy Merlyn strolling in like he owned the place, his hands shoved casually in the pockets of what was probably a thousand-dollar jacket.
"Well," he announced, his voice carrying that particular brand of charm that was equal parts genuine warmth and practiced ease, "either I just walked into the wrong nonprofit organization, or you two have officially given up on saving the world and started hosting the most depressing party in Star City."
Laurel's eyebrows shot up. "Tommy? What are you doing here?"
"And why are you dressed like you're about to attend a state dinner?" Joanna added, looking him up and down appreciatively. "Not that I'm complaining, but that level of put-together usually means you're either in trouble or about to cause trouble."
Tommy placed a hand over his heart, his expression shifting to one of exaggerated wounded innocence. "Why does everyone always assume I'm here to cause trouble? Maybe I'm here to rescue a certain overworked, underappreciated legal crusader from all this doom and gloom."
Laurel crossed her arms, giving him a look that could have melted steel. "Rescue?"
"Poor choice of words," Tommy admitted with a sheepish grin. "You don't need rescuing. You need... vacation. A break. Some fun. When's the last time you did something just for yourself?"
"I don't have time for—"
"Coast City," Tommy interrupted, pulling two folded papers from his jacket pocket and holding them up like a magician revealing his final trick. "This weekend. I've got a jet fueled and ready, two first-class tickets, and a suite at the Del Mar Resort. Sun, sand, room service that'll make you forget your own name, and—I checked—absolutely no cell phone reception."
Joanna's eyes widened. "Holy... that's like, a five-star resort. I've seen it in magazines. Rich people magazines."
"The best kind of magazines," Tommy said with a wink. "So what do you say, Laurel? Ready to trade legal briefs for beach briefs?"
Laurel stared at him, her expression unreadable. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because you deserve it," Tommy said, and for a moment, his practiced charm slipped just enough to reveal something genuine underneath. "Because you work eighteen-hour days fighting for people who might never even know your name. Because you care more about justice than most people care about their own families. Because—"
"No," Laurel said, cutting him off. "I mean why are you coming on so strong? What's this really about, Tommy?"
For just a second, his confident facade cracked, and both women caught a glimpse of something vulnerable underneath. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that was more nervous than suave.
"I meant what I said a few weeks ago," he said quietly. "You deserve to know who I really am. Not just the spoiled rich kid everyone thinks I am. Not just Oliver's best friend. Not just the guy who shows up to charity galas and writes checks. Just... me."
Laurel studied his face, her expression softening just slightly. But then she looked down at the paper in her hands, and her jaw tightened again.
"I'd love to say yes," she said, her voice gentler now but still firm. "But we just lost our biggest donor. We're looking at layoffs, Tommy. Clients we can't help anymore. People who are going to suffer because we don't have the resources to fight for them."
Tommy's smile faded completely, and for a moment, he looked almost lost.
"Right," he said, shoving the tickets back into his pocket. "Bad timing. Story of my life."
"Tommy—"
"No, it's fine," he said, forcing his grin back into place, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I get it. World needs saving. Can't stop for vacation. Rain check, then?"
Joanna glanced between them, her expression sympathetic. "You could always donate to the cause," she suggested hopefully. "You know, instead of expensive weekend getaways?"
Tommy's laugh was hollow. "Yeah, because nothing says 'romantic gesture' like cutting a check to your girlfriend's nonprofit."
"I'm not your girlfriend," Laurel said quietly.
"Yet," Tommy replied, and there was something almost desperate in his voice. "I'm working on it."
Laurel's expression softened again, and for a moment, it looked like she might change her mind. But then she shook her head.
"I have work to do," she said. "We both do. This funding crisis isn't going to solve itself."
Tommy nodded, straightening his jacket. "Right. Well, I'll, uh... I'll let you get back to saving the city. Someone has to do it, right?"
He turned toward the door, then paused, looking back over his shoulder.
"For what it's worth," he said, his voice quiet, "I think you're amazing. Both of you. What you do here... it matters. Even if the rest of the world doesn't always see it."
With that, he was gone, leaving only the soft chime of the closing door and the lingering scent of expensive cologne.
Joanna let out a low whistle. "Damn," she said softly. "That boy has it bad."
Laurel didn't answer. She just stood there, staring at the closed door, her expression conflicted.
"You know," Joanna continued, "he's not wrong. About the vacation thing. When's the last time you did something just for fun?"
"I don't have time for fun," Laurel said, turning back to the window.
"That's exactly why you need it," Joanna replied. "You're going to burn out, Laurel. And then what good will you be to anyone?"
Laurel was quiet for a long moment, watching the city lights twinkle below. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"He's trying too hard," she said.
"Maybe," Joanna agreed. "Or maybe he's just trying to show you that he cares. In his own, admittedly over-the-top way."
"I don't have time for this," Laurel said, but there was less conviction in her voice now.
"You don't have time for anything except work," Joanna pointed out. "That's the problem."
Laurel turned back to her, her green eyes flashing with determination.
"Right now, work is what matters," she said firmly. "We have a crisis to deal with. People are counting on us. I'm not going to let them down because some rich boy wants to play house."
Joanna held up her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. But when this is all over, when we've found new funding and saved the world and done all the things that need doing... maybe then you can think about letting yourself be happy?"
Laurel's expression softened, and for just a moment, she looked younger, more vulnerable.
"Maybe," she said quietly. "But not yet. Not while there's still work to do."
She picked up the funding letter again, her jaw setting in that familiar stubborn line.
"Come on," she said, her voice regaining its strength. "Let's figure out how to save this place. We've got calls to make."
—
QUEEN MANOR — LIVING ROOM — EVENING
The Queen Manor's living room was a monument to tasteful excess, all pristine white furniture and crystal decanters that probably cost more than most people's cars. The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the marble floors and illuminating the faint dust motes that danced in the air like tiny stars.
Thea Queen was sprawled across the ivory leather couch like she'd been dropped there by gravity, one leg hooked carelessly over the armrest, her phone held directly above her face in that particular millennial pose that suggested she'd been in this exact position for hours. Her dark hair fell in waves around her shoulders, and every few seconds she'd make a face at her screen—sometimes disgusted, sometimes amused, always dramatic.
"Oh, come on," she muttered, her thumb scrolling with practiced ease. "Nobody's skin is actually that perfect. That's got to be like, seventeen different filters."
Across from her, Delphini sat perched in one of the high-backed chairs like a raven in designer clothing, her black skinny jeans and oversized charcoal cardigan making her look like she'd stepped out of some indie film about troubled teenagers. A thick hardcover book was balanced on her knee, but her grey-green eyes kept darting from the page to her cousin, a sharp little smirk playing at the corners of her mouth.
"You know," Delphini said finally, her crisp British accent cutting through the comfortable silence like a blade, "you've been making that same vacant expression for the better part of twenty minutes. Is this some sort of meditation technique? Or are you attempting to communicate with the device telepathically?"
Thea snorted without looking up, her thumb never pausing in its endless scroll. "It's called Instagram, cousin dear. Maybe you've heard of it? It's where we mere mortals go to look at pretty people, hate ourselves, and cyber-stalk our exes. You know, normal human activities."
Delphini's smirk deepened, revealing just a hint of teeth. "How absolutely riveting. I'd rather chew glass, thank you very much."
That finally earned a genuine laugh from Thea, who dropped her phone to her chest and twisted to face her cousin properly. "God, you're such a Potter. Definitely Harry's sister. Even your insults sound like they came from a Victorian novel."
"I prefer the term 'articulate,'" Delphini replied, flipping a page with deliberate elegance. "But do continue projecting your insecurities, darling. It's quite entertaining."
"Projecting? Oh, that's rich coming from Wednesday Addams over there," Thea shot back, gesturing at her cousin's all-black ensemble. "What's next, are you going to tell me you only read Edgar Allan Poe and listen to funeral dirges?"
Delphini glanced up from her book, one eyebrow arched in perfect disdain. "Please. I have much more sophisticated tastes than that. I listen to classical music while I read about serial killers."
"That's... actually kind of badass," Thea admitted grudgingly.
The front door's heavy oak frame creaked open, the sound echoing through the foyer and into the living room. Oliver Queen stepped inside, his expensive suit wrinkled from a long day, his tie loosened and hanging at an angle that suggested he'd been tugging at it for hours. He carried his jacket over one shoulder, and there was something in his posture—a weight that went beyond mere physical exhaustion.
"Hey," he said simply, tossing his keys onto the antique console table with a clatter that made both girls look up.
Thea immediately swung her legs down and sat up properly, her expression brightening. "Ollie! Thank God. Save me from our pretentious British cousin. She's been judging my life choices for the past hour."
"I've been judging your life choices for the past week," Delphini corrected mildly, not bothering to look up from her book. "Your Instagram habits are merely the latest in a long list of questionable decisions."
Oliver moved toward the liquor cart, his movements automatic and practiced. "Don't take it personally, Speedy. Delphi judges everyone. It's apparently a genetic trait she inherited from her father."
"I can hear you, you know," Delphini said, her tone sweetly venomous. "And I prefer to think of it as having discerning taste and high standards."
"Right," Oliver said, pouring himself two fingers of scotch. "High standards. That's what we're calling it."
He settled into his usual armchair with a slight groan, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. The scotch caught the light, casting tiny golden reflections on the crystal.
Thea studied her brother's face, her expression growing more serious. "Okay, before we get into a whole thing about Delphini's superiority complex, can we talk about Mom? Because she's been acting really weird lately."
Oliver's hand stilled on his glass. "Define weird."
"I don't know, like..." Thea gestured vaguely, searching for words. "More intense than usual? Which is saying something, because Mom's baseline intensity could power a small city. But ever since Walter left on his mysterious 'business trip,'" she made air quotes, "she's been like Mom times ten. All sharp edges and meaningful looks."
Delphini finally looked up from her book, her interest clearly piqued. "Ah yes, the not-quite-stepfather. The emotionally distant man with impeccable taste in suits. How very... traditional."
"That's one way to put it," Oliver said dryly, taking a sip of his scotch.
"I'm serious, Ollie," Thea pressed, leaning forward. "Yesterday I caught her just standing in the kitchen, staring at the coffee maker like it had personally offended her. And when I asked if she was okay, she just smiled that scary smile and said everything was 'perfectly fine' in that voice that means someone's about to get murdered."
"Mom's always been..." Oliver paused, searching for the right word. "Complicated."
"Complicated is one word for it," Thea muttered. "Terrifying is another."
Before Oliver could respond, the sharp staccato of heels on marble announced Moira Queen's arrival. She swept into the room like a force of nature in designer clothing, her silk blouse immaculate despite the late hour, her diamond necklace catching the light and throwing tiny rainbows across the walls. Everything about her posture screamed control, from the set of her shoulders to the way she held her head, but there was something in her eyes—a tightness that spoke of stress carefully contained.
"Children," she began, her voice carrying that particular tone that meant business, "I've invited Janice Bowen and her son Carter to brunch tomorrow. I expect you all to be present and on your best behavior."
The reaction was immediate and dramatic. Thea let out a groan that seemed to come from the depths of her soul, collapsing backward onto the couch like she'd been physically struck.
"Oh my God," she wailed, throwing an arm over her eyes. "Why do you hate us? What did we do to deserve this?"
Oliver, meanwhile, had gone very still, his glass frozen halfway to his lips. "Janice Bowen?" he repeated, his voice carefully neutral in the way that meant he was definitely not neutral about this at all.
"Yes, Oliver," Moira said, her tone sharpening as she fixed him with a look that could have cut glass. "Janice Bowen. And her son Carter. You remember Carter, don't you?"
Thea bolted upright, her eyes wide with theatrical horror. "Please tell me you're joking. Please tell me this is some elaborate prank and we're all going to laugh about it later. I'll do anything—I'll clean my room, I'll eat those horrible kale smoothies you keep trying to force on me, I'll even be nice to the society ladies at your charity functions—"
Delphini glanced between them, her curiosity clearly piqued by the level of distress this announcement had caused. "I'm sensing I'm missing some crucial context here. Who exactly is this Carter person, and why has the mention of his name caused you all to collectively have what appears to be a psychological breakdown?"
"Because," Thea said, her voice rising to a pitch that probably only dogs could hear, "Carter Bowen is literally the worst person who has ever existed in the history of human existence."
Oliver leaned forward, setting his glass down with a sharp clink. "In high school, Carter was... perfect. Straight A's, varsity captain of three different sports, debate team champion, National Honor Society, early admission to Harvard. The guy Mom never stopped comparing me to."
"Because he was ambitious," Moira interjected smoothly, her voice carrying that particular edge that meant she was warming up to one of her lectures. "Disciplined. Responsible. Focused. All the qualities you seemed determined to avoid at that age."
"He was also a pretentious, condescending little robot who probably flossed his teeth twice a day and filed his taxes in January," Thea added, her voice dripping with disgust. "He used to correct people's grammar in casual conversation, Mom. In casual conversation."
Delphini's lips curved into a small, interested smile. "So he's the golden boy? The perfect son you never were?"
"Exactly," Oliver said, his jaw tightening slightly. "The shining example of what a Queen son should be."
"And now he's probably some hotshot lawyer or investment banker or something equally soul-crushing," Thea continued, "and he's going to sit at our table and talk about his perfect life and his perfect apartment and his perfect girlfriend while looking down at us like we're some kind of charity case."
Moira's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. "Regardless of your personal feelings about Carter, you will all attend. That includes you, Oliver. And you, Thea."
Thea let out another groan, this one even more dramatic than the last. "This is torture. Actual torture. I'm pretty sure this violates the Geneva Convention."
"And you as well, Delphini," Moira added, turning her attention to her niece. "You're part of this family now, and I expect you to represent us accordingly."
Delphini closed her book with a soft thud, meeting Moira's gaze head-on. Her smile was perfectly polite and absolutely lethal. "Of course, Aunt Moira. I wouldn't dream of disappointing you. After all, family obligations are so very... important."
There was something in her tone that made Oliver glance at her sharply, but Moira seemed satisfied with the response.
"Good," Moira said, smoothing her skirt with her hands. "I expect you all dressed appropriately and ready to make a good impression. We have a reputation to maintain."
With that, she turned on her heel and swept out of the room, leaving behind the lingering scent of expensive perfume and the weight of impending doom.
The moment her footsteps faded, Thea flopped back onto the couch with a groan that seemed to come from her very soul. "Brunch. With Carter Bowen. Somebody just shoot me now and put me out of my misery."
Oliver drained the rest of his scotch in one gulp, his expression grim. "Could be worse."
Delphini tilted her head at him, genuinely curious. "Oh? How exactly could this situation be worse?"
Oliver's smile was dry and humorless. "Could be dinner. Longer event, more courses, more opportunities for humiliation."
Delphini let out a soft laugh, quickly covering it by taking a sip from her water glass. "Well," she murmured, settling back into her chair with renewed interest, "tomorrow should be absolutely fascinating."
"That's one word for it," Oliver muttered, rising to pour himself another drink.
Thea pulled a throw pillow over her face, her voice muffled. "I bet he still has that creepy perfect hair. All slicked back and shiny like he uses motor oil instead of hair gel. God, I hate him so much."
"You know what the really sad part is?" she continued, removing the pillow to glare at the ceiling. "He probably doesn't even remember being awful to us. He probably thinks he was just being helpful or whatever."
"That's the worst kind of awful," Oliver agreed. "The kind that doesn't even know it's awful."
Delphini's smirk returned, sharper than before. "You know," she said, her voice deceptively casual, "I'm sure Harry would be more than happy to help with your Carter problem. He's gotten quite creative with his hexes lately."
Oliver shook his head, but he was almost smiling. "You know what? I don't even want to know what that means."
"Probably better that way," Delphini agreed sweetly.
The Queen Manor settled into an uneasy quiet, the three of them lost in their own thoughts about the impending brunch and the return of Carter Bowen—the golden boy who had once made their lives miserable and was apparently about to do it again.
Outside, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, but inside the manor, the mood was decidedly darker. Tomorrow was going to be a very long day.
—
The muffled sound of Thea's theatrical groaning still echoed from the living room below as Oliver stepped out into the hallway, his phone already buzzing insistently in his hand. The corridor stretched before him, lined with oil paintings of long-dead Queens and expensive furniture that probably cost more than most people's cars. He pulled the heavy double doors shut behind him with a soft thud, the sound muffling his sister's continued complaints about tomorrow's brunch.
"This is Queen," he said, his voice dropping to that low, controlled tone he used when he was expecting bad news.
John Diggle's steady baritone came through immediately, carrying the weight of someone who'd seen too much and was about to deliver more.
"Oliver, we've got a problem," John said without preamble. "Scott Morgan. The latest name from your father's list. He just tried to kill himself about an hour ago."
Oliver's jaw tightened, his free hand automatically clenching into a fist. "Define 'tried.'"
"Threw himself off a loading dock behind his office building. Three-story drop onto concrete. Starling General has him stabilized for now, but it's touch and go. Multiple fractures, internal bleeding, the works."
Oliver closed his eyes for just a moment, running his free hand down his face. When he opened them again, they were harder, more focused.
"Was he pushed?" he asked flatly.
"No," Diggle replied, his tone grim. "Security footage shows he was alone. Climbed up on the railing and jumped. No one else around for fifty yards in any direction. But something spooked him, Oliver. Something spooked him bad."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you've been putting pressure on these guys. Leaning hard. Making them sweat. Maybe Morgan thought he was next on your list for a visit to the ICU."
Oliver's expression darkened. "I don't kill people, Dig."
"I know that. You know that. But these guys don't know that. All they know is that people on Robert Queen's list have been turning up beaten half to death, and now one of them is so scared he tried to take a header off a building rather than face whatever he thought was coming."
Oliver was quiet for a long moment, processing. "Any idea what set him off?"
"I'm working on it. But I need you down here. Hospital security is asking questions, and Morgan's family is already talking about bringing in lawyers. This could get messy fast."
"I'll be there," Oliver said, already pivoting toward his room. "Give me twenty minutes."
"Copy that. I'll meet you at the hospital. And Oliver? Maybe we need to talk about adjusting your approach. Fear's a tool, but this..." Diggle's voice trailed off.
"I know," Oliver said quietly. "Twenty minutes."
He ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket, exhaling slowly as he prepared to head for his room. But as he turned, he froze.
Delphini was standing at the far end of the hallway, leaning casually against the wall like she'd been there the entire time. She was still in her black cardigan and jeans, her arms folded loosely across her chest, one ankle crossed over the other in a pose that managed to look both relaxed and predatory. Her grey-green eyes were fixed on him with that unsettling intensity that reminded him uncomfortably of her brother.
"How is Mr. Morgan?" she asked, her voice perfectly conversational.
Oliver felt his muscles tense automatically, his instincts kicking in as he tried—and failed—to keep his expression neutral. "What?"
Delphini pushed off the wall with fluid grace, padding toward him in that eerily quiet way she had. Her bare feet made no sound on the hardwood floor, and she moved with the kind of careful precision that suggested she'd had training most people never received.
"Don't bother playing dumb," she said, her British accent making the words sound even more cutting. "That phone call. It was about your little nighttime hobby, wasn't it? Your... extracurricular activities?"
Oliver said nothing, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Delphini stopped a few feet away, tilting her head slightly as she studied his face. "I recognize that expression, you know. That particular brand of grim determination mixed with barely contained violence. Harry wears it whenever he's about to do something monumentally stupid for the greater good. Daphne gets it too, usually right before she starts planning something that's going to end up on the front page of the Prophet."
At the mention of her brother and his team, Oliver finally found his voice. "You knew?"
Delphini's lips curved into a smile that was equal parts amused and dangerous. "Of course I knew. How could I not? Harry, Susan, Daphne, Hermione, Neville, Luna... they're my family now. They're the ones who got me out of that nightmare before those monsters could use me as a sacrifice to bring Voldemort back."
Oliver's brow furrowed slightly. "The Vladovich Circle."
She nodded once, her expression growing more serious. "You don't forget people who save you from being bled dry over a dark altar. Not ever. Especially when they're wearing those ridiculous masks and hoods and calling themselves names like they're characters in some pulp novel."
Her tone softened then, just a fraction, but her eyes never lost their sharp edge.
"I've kept their secret," she continued, "just like I'll keep yours. So go. Do whatever it is you have to do tonight. Scare some sense into whoever needs it. Just..." she paused, then added with pointed emphasis, "try not to get yourself killed. Your sister would be devastated, and I'd have to listen to her cry, which would be insufferable."
Oliver studied her for a long moment, his usual stoic mask slipping ever so slightly. There was something in her eyes—a knowledge, an understanding that went beyond her years. It was unsettling, but also somehow reassuring.
"You really are Harry's sister," he muttered under his breath.
Delphini's smirk widened, revealing just a hint of teeth. "High praise, coming from someone who dresses up like a medieval executioner and terrorizes white-collar criminals. Now stop brooding and start moving. I'll stay here with Thea, make sure she doesn't actually smother herself with that pillow while contemplating tomorrow's social nightmare."
Oliver allowed himself the barest flicker of a smile at that, already moving toward his room. "You'll keep her out of trouble?"
"Define 'trouble,'" Delphini called after him, her voice carrying just enough mischief to make him pause.
He turned back to look at her, one eyebrow raised. "The kind that ends with police sirens and property damage."
"Oh, well then you should have been more specific," she replied with mock innocence. "I was thinking more along the lines of 'getting drunk and texting her ex-boyfriend' trouble. Property damage is much more serious."
That actually drew a quiet chuckle from him as he disappeared into his room, leaving Delphini standing in the hallway. She waited until she heard the soft click of his door closing before letting her composed mask slip just a little. Her expression grew thoughtful, almost worried, as she stared at the spot where he'd been standing.
"Be careful, Oliver Queen," she murmured to herself, her voice barely above a whisper. "The city needs its guardian, but Thea needs her brother more."
From downstairs, Thea's voice drifted up, still complaining about Carter Bowen and the impending brunch of doom. Delphini shook her head with a small smile and headed back toward the living room, her footsteps silent on the hardwood floor.
"Right then," she said to herself, "time to play the supportive cousin."
But as she reached the top of the stairs, she paused, glancing back toward Oliver's room one more time. She'd meant what she said about keeping his secret, but that didn't mean she wouldn't be watching. After all, she'd learned from the best when it came to looking out for reckless heroes who thought they could save the world single-handedly.
And Oliver Queen, for all his training and preparation, was still just a man with a bow and a death wish. Someone needed to make sure he came home in one piece.
Even if that someone was a seventeen-year-old girl who'd already seen too much darkness for one lifetime.
---
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