Tommy had been miserable lately. Riding buses, squeezing into the subway, pretending to be sick whenever his old friends invited him out—being broke was a tragedy he'd never experienced before. So when he heard that his allowance might finally be reinstated, he felt reborn. He even poured his father a glass of water—unprecedented—and sat obediently, all smiles. Go on, old man, say the magic words.
Malcolm saw that eager face and immediately understood the motive. He almost choked on his own irritation but steadied himself and asked quietly,
"If you were kidnapped, what would you do?"
"What about the bodyguards? You didn't forget to pay them, did you?" Tommy asked, puzzled.
The difference between my kids… unreal. Malcolm thought. Thea overthinks everything, to the point of paranoia, but caution is good. Tommy, on the other hand… He sighed inwardly and kept his tone neutral.
"If you're with Laurel, I doubt you want a bodyguard hovering twenty-four hours a day, do you?"
Well, that was true. Nobody wanted a guard standing nearby when they were, ahem, enjoying private moments. Tommy frowned thoughtfully, sensing a deeper message. "What are you getting at?"
"You need the ability to protect yourself—any time, anywhere."
"You mean carry a weapon?"
"No," Malcolm said firmly. "You need training."
Tommy laughed, expecting a joke, but his father's expression didn't change. The amusement faded. "Wait, you're serious? Like… military training? Combat stuff?"
Malcolm didn't answer right away. Their relationship had been distant for years, but just from a few sentences tonight, he'd already gauged his son's mindset and weaknesses. That made persuasion easier.
"You'd want to protect Laurel if something happened, wouldn't you?"
"Of course," Tommy said at once. What man didn't want to protect the woman he loved?
"Then skip the company tomorrow. I'll train you myself—teach you how to protect her."
After months with Thea, Malcolm had absorbed her constant complaints about "heroes" and their obsession with protecting others. Even he had started to understand the psychology behind it.
At first, Tommy only registered the best part: skip work. His heart leapt. Then the rest of the words caught up—train you myself. Suddenly he felt a wave of purpose, determination, even pride. He was going to learn to fight—to protect Laurel.
A few seconds later, another thought hit him. "Wait, you're going to train me? You can do that?" He eyed his father skeptically. "You're… a businessman."
Malcolm didn't bother arguing. Experience had taught him that words meant nothing—demonstration was key. He took out a bag of tennis balls and handed it over. "Throw them in the air—one at a time. Watch."
But the first lesson went sideways immediately. Tommy, still wondering how his father supposedly knew martial arts, grabbed the bag and tossed all the balls at once.
Malcolm stared at the raining tennis balls and nearly lost it. How the hell am I supposed to shoot that?!
"Pick them up! One at a time!" he barked.
Once things finally went according to plan, Tommy's eyes widened at his father's marksmanship. When Malcolm asked if he wanted to learn, Tommy voiced the question that had plagued Oliver years before on the island: "Why not just use a gun?"
Malcolm now truly understood how Yao Fei must have felt back then. Why are they all so literal? My daughter never asked dumb questions like this!
He almost blurted that bullets wouldn't work on him anyway, but he wasn't Thea—his senses weren't that sharp, and his aging body definitely wasn't bulletproof. He took refuge in an old League saying.
"Guns are tools of the weak."
He regretted it instantly. Tommy's blank stare said it all. Malcolm forced a smile and clarified,
"Once I've trained you, you'll be able to dodge bullets—or react before the gunman even pulls the trigger."
Tommy looked like someone listening to a bedtime story. "You can really do that?"
Malcolm could only nod grimly. "Of course." Meanwhile, his mind raced: If he actually tests me, I'm doomed. Maybe I'll claim my injury's acting up…
Fortunately, Tommy's curiosity had limits. He nodded slowly. "Okay, I'll take your word for it. So… how do we start? Where do we train?"
Malcolm considered. Same as before, I suppose. Back to the woods. Same classroom, new student. He almost laughed at himself. A teacher again—one pupil at a time.
The night was still young. He led Tommy out to the familiar clearing. The setting, the smell—it was all the same, only the students had changed.
With his newfound "teaching experience," Malcolm reused Thea's entire training regimen. Within five minutes, he regretted it. Tommy wasn't stupid—his mind was quick—but physically? Hopeless. No coordination, no natural reflexes, decades of indulgence had dulled every nerve. If Malcolm's skill was the center of a target, Thea was ten miles ahead, Tommy ten miles behind.
Same blood, same family—how can the gap be this huge?!
They practiced late into the night. Malcolm had Tommy shoot at a simple ten-meter target. When he'd trained Thea, she'd hit it with her first arrow. Even Malcolm himself, back when he trained in Nanda Parbat, had managed it after three days—and he'd been middle-aged. Tommy was twenty.
Still, there was one thing in his favor: perseverance. He wasn't talented, but he didn't quit. When he failed, he just kept trying. That small, stubborn streak softened something in Malcolm's heart.
As father and son trained together, the air between them thawed. Tommy began to relax around him. Their strained relationship started to mend—just a little.
Malcolm sat down at last, exhausted, opening the bandage at his waist. The wound had reopened; blood seeped through again.
"Dad—what the hell? You're bleeding!" Tommy exclaimed, rushing over.
Malcolm looked at his son's worried face and felt a wave of warmth. That cut was worth it. But he couldn't exactly say, Your sister did it. That would raise far too many questions.
So he spun a story. "There's a new underground group rising in Star City. I went to investigate them. Got a little careless, that's all."
Tommy, of course, had no idea that the "underground group" was his father's own organization. To him, it all made perfect sense: his father had been secretly fighting the city's darkness, got injured in the line of duty, and now wanted to train his son to avoid dragging him down.
A spark of awe lit his eyes. My dad… is a hidden hero.
He placed a hand on Malcolm's shoulder and said earnestly, "Don't worry, Dad. I'll be careful—and I'll find whoever hurt you."