Tommy had been in excellent spirits these past few days.
Without Thea's constant teasing or uninvited appearances, life felt peaceful, and things with Laurel were progressing beautifully—from "physical communication" to something approaching "emotional communication." That's just how relationships worked in the Western world: you tested the hardware first, then discussed the software. Software could always be updated later; hardware problems, though—those were terminal.
Of course, no one's life is all happiness. Tommy had his share of troubles—namely, his father.
Malcolm had been acting strange lately, calling and texting nonstop. Yesterday he'd gone completely over the edge: he'd texted Tommy ordering him to start working at Merlyn Global! Said something about "competing with Thea." Competing? Competing for what? If Thea went to Queen Consolidated and he joined Merlyn Global, sure, maybe you could call that competition. But now? They were living separate lives with different surnames and different family fortunes. Compete how? Reading that text, Tommy became convinced his father's midlife madness had reached its final stage. The man's logic circuits were fried.
That night, after dinner with Laurel, Tommy casually tossed his credit card to the waiter, looking every bit the smooth gentleman. They were planning to go home afterward and engage in some "mutually beneficial exercise."
The waiter soon returned, bowing apologetically. "I'm sorry, sir, but you'll need to pay in cash."
"What?" Tommy blinked. "I've been coming here for years—why cash today?" He kept his tone polite, though he felt the heat of embarrassment under Laurel's gaze.
The waiter, terrified to offend such a regular VIP, bowed lower. "Your credit card was declined, sir. Perhaps you have another?"
He tried three. Not a single one worked. All frozen.
That was all the confirmation Tommy needed—it had his father's fingerprints all over it. He forced a smile, promised to settle up later, and left a generous apology to the staff.
After dropping Laurel off at her apartment, he'd lost all mood for "exercise." "Do some yoga or something," he muttered, storming back home. This was the first time he'd set foot in the mansion in a month.
Malcolm was waiting—dressed in a flowing martial robe, sitting cross-legged before a low table with two tea bowls and a kettle. Behind him hung a large scroll with a single Chinese character: 禅 (Zen). The setup screamed "ancient master," meant to project calm and wisdom, to coax his son into listening.
It had the opposite effect.
Tommy froze at the doorway. His father sat motionless, eyes closed, silent. For a split second, Tommy thought he'd dropped dead. He even reached out a hand to check for breath—wondering if he should call a doctor or a lawyer first.
Malcolm opened one eye, saw what he was doing, and instantly lost his patience. So much for enlightenment. He snapped, "You're starting at Merlyn Global tomorrow!" and stalked off without another word.
Negotiation failed. Tommy knew he couldn't fight his father forever. Still, he fumed. His relationship with Laurel was finally blooming, but with his cards frozen, he had no income. Laurel's budding law career was taking off; the only thing he could contribute was money—and now even that was gone.
Determined to behave, earn some goodwill, and get his allowance restored, Tommy resolved to start work the next day. But that resolution didn't survive the night. Years of nightlife had trained his body clock beyond repair—he overslept. By the time he reached Merlyn Global, it was already ten in the morning.
Malcolm said nothing about the delay. He had bigger concerns. Just like Queen Consolidated, Merlyn Global had given its new recruit a "CEO assistant" title—nominally prestigious, practically harmless. Maybe it wasn't fair that Tommy, six years older and male, held the same rank as Thea, but fairness wasn't the priority anymore.
Because the reports coming in from Queen Consolidated were staggering.
In only three days, Thea had memorized the entire middle and upper management roster—names, birthplaces, universities—and could engage each person in light conversation tailored to their interests. Yesterday, she'd even noticed a mid-level manager's birthday and sent a thoughtful company gift. This morning, she'd submitted a proposal on "human-centered office culture." Harmless, agreeable—yet impossible to oppose. On the surveillance feed that Malcolm's people sent him, every executive had nodded approvingly.
Even the HR experts on his payroll—who didn't know who she really was—gave Thea top marks across the board: intelligent, adaptable, socially perceptive. Her only weakness was her youth. Education? Irrelevant. In the West, plenty of self-made CEOs had no degrees. Compared to Tommy, who hadn't even finished grade school, Thea's high school level practically counted as ivy league.
The evaluation forms read like fan mail: "Smart, resourceful, poised, uses advantages effectively." Not a single negative line.
Malcolm felt both proud and miserable—proud of his daughter's brilliance, furious at his son's mediocrity. Out of curiosity, he pulled up the company's security feed to check on Tommy's "first day." After ten minutes of searching, he finally found him—flirting cheerfully with the receptionist.
He almost choked. Grabbing a handful of heart pills, he muttered darkly, That damned Oliver Queen. My son used to be so well-behaved until that brat corrupted him!
He wasn't the only one fuming.
Just as Malcolm had eyes in Queen Consolidated, Moira had informants in Merlyn Global. Tommy's every move—his tardy arrival, his carefree charm—was dutifully reported to her. Comparing that to her daughter's crisp video conference with regional managers, Moira decided this "competition" was already over. No suspense at all.
Watching Tommy's performance, she naturally assumed it was he who'd led Oliver astray years ago. Oliver used to be such a sweet boy, she thought, and look what he became under Tommy's influence.
Meanwhile, halfway across the world on Lian Yu, Oliver sneezed violently.
"Focus!" barked Yao Fei, his bearded, wild-haired mentor, leading him through the jungle. They'd been together for over a month now, and Yao Fei had finally switched to English.
Something in the old soldier's brain had clearly snapped—he'd vowed to beat the playboy habits out of Oliver and turn him into a worthy successor. His training method was simple: brute force.
When Oliver disobeyed, Yao Fei hit him. When he hesitated, he hit him harder. The Arrow's entire combat style—his endurance, reflexes, and grit—was born out of those beatings. Tied to chairs, pinned to tables, thrown into mud—it wasn't education, it was survival.
That morning, they'd spent hours trekking in circles before catching a bird for breakfast. Then came archery practice again. Oliver thought the whole thing was ridiculous. A modern man, learning to shoot a bow? He couldn't refuse—too scared—but his attitude was half-hearted at best.
Yao Fei, who'd never dealt with anyone this stubborn, sighed and tightened his grip on the stick.
"Learn. Or get hit again."
And the lesson continued—with the usual sound of whack! echoing through the jungle.