CNRI Legal Aid Office – Downtown Starling City
The buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead was about as welcoming as a migraine. The coffee in the breakroom smelled like it had given up on life, and the pile of legal paperwork stacked on Laurel Lance's desk was tall enough to qualify as a fire hazard. But none of that bothered her.
Not really.
She was focused. Composed. In control.
At least, that's what she told herself every fifteen seconds.
"Okay," Joanna De La Vega said, heels clicking as she paced the length of the room with a file folder flapping like a fan in one hand. "So either Adam Hunt is embezzling enough money to buy a small island, or he's trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records for Most Offshore Accounts."
Laurel barely glanced up from her notes. "Did you cross-reference the shell companies against the property records in the Glades?"
"Yeah. And guess what? Turns out his Cayman account owns a laundromat that doesn't actually exist and a strip club that—bonus—is registered as a nonprofit. I can't decide if that's gross or just creative."
Laurel made a face. "Both."
Joanna threw the folder onto Laurel's desk with a dramatic sigh. "I swear, if this guy weren't so criminally scummy, I'd almost respect the hustle."
Laurel flipped a page and scribbled something in her firm, precise handwriting. "We've got enough for a subpoena. Now we just need a judge who hasn't taken his campaign donations."
"So basically, Bigfoot."
Laurel didn't respond.
Not because she didn't hear. But because her thoughts had once again drifted—uninvited and unrelenting—to him.
Oliver.
Oliver Queen.
The name echoed in her skull like a fire alarm. And the thing about fire alarms was, you couldn't ignore them. Not for long.
She'd seen the news. Everyone had. He was back. Alive. After five years of being presumed dead. After a shipwreck. After vanishing from the face of the Earth with her baby sister onboard.
Sara.
God, Sara.
"Hey." Joanna snapped her fingers. "Lance. You're staring at that deposition like it ran over your cat."
Laurel blinked. "Sorry. Just… distracted."
Joanna tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. "Is this a 'work' distracted or a capital letters, bold font, headlines across the city distracted?"
Before Laurel could lie, the door cracked open and Chloe, their ever-perky college intern with too much lip gloss and a relentless cheeriness, poked her head in.
"Ms. Lance?" she chirped, practically vibrating with excitement. "Sorry to interrupt, but there's someone out front asking for you."
Laurel looked up sharply. "Did they say who?"
Chloe's eyes sparkled like she was holding in a juicy secret. "Yeah. He said his name is… Oliver."
The room fell silent.
Joanna froze mid-sip of her Red Bull, lowered it slowly, and blinked. "He did not."
Chloe beamed. "He said he's happy to wait, but he's kind of—uh—just standing out there looking like a catalog model who took a wrong turn into a law office, so people are definitely noticing."
Laurel felt something cold and electric coil in her stomach.
Of course he came here. Of course he did.
Joanna set down the Red Bull like it was a grenade. "You want me to tell him you're busy? Or on a lunch break? Or that you moved to Tibet and renounced all worldly attachments, including ex-boyfriends who come back from the dead?"
Laurel stood, smoothing down her pencil skirt, her expression unreadable.
"No," she said quietly. "Tell him I'll be right out."
Joanna raised both brows. "You sure? Because your murder face is doing a thing and I don't want to have to bail you out of jail."
"I'm fine," Laurel said, though her voice was a little too clipped. "Just… cover for me if Hunt's lawyer calls."
Joanna gave her a long look, then nodded. "Ten minutes. If you're not back by then, I'm calling for backup. Or wine."
Laurel didn't answer. She was already walking.
The hallway felt longer than usual, the click of her heels like a drumroll leading to something she hadn't rehearsed for. She paused at the glass doors, took a breath, and—
There he was.
Oliver Queen.
Standing in the sunlight like a ghost that refused to stay dead. Hands in his jacket pockets, that signature lean of his like he wasn't trying to look cool—he just was. Hair shorter. Shoulders broader. Eyes… the same.
Damn him.
Laurel squared her shoulders and pushed open the door.
He turned as she stepped outside, and when his eyes met hers, they softened instantly.
"Laurel," he said, voice low and quiet and so him it made her teeth clench.
She held up a hand. "Don't."
Oliver blinked. "Okay. I just—"
"Don't," she said again, sharper now. "Not here. Not like this."
He closed his mouth. Good.
"I'm working," she continued, folding her arms. "I have clients. A staff. An intern with a gossip addiction and too much access to Twitter. So if you came here to do the whole tragic reunion thing, save it."
Oliver gave a small nod. "I just wanted to see you."
"You could've called," she snapped. "Or emailed. Or sent a letter. You know, anything other than showing up out of the blue like some brooding—" she cut herself off, drawing a breath. "Look. I don't have time for this. But if you want to talk—really talk—I'll give you ten minutes."
His eyes lifted, hopeful. "Okay."
"But one word I don't like?" she added. "And I'm gone. Understand?"
He nodded. "Understood."
She turned, heels already clacking against the pavement. He followed silently behind her like a man walking toward judgment—and knowing he deserved it.
Back inside, Joanna watched through the blinds and muttered, "Girl, if he gives you even one smolder, you better slap him into next week."
Chloe gasped. "Wait, that's the Oliver Queen? Like, the billionaire playboy turned shipwreck survivor turned snack of the century?"
Joanna sighed. "Yep. And if he breaks her heart again, I get to sue him for emotional damages."
Chloe blinked. "Is that legal?"
Joanna smirked. "It will be."
—
The city blares with honking horns, shrieking tires, and the low grumble of buses weaving between taxis like a mechanical school of fish. Midtown Star City at its finest.
But Tommy Merlyn wasn't paying attention to any of it.
He was leaned—no, lounged—against his cherry-red Aston Martin Vantage like he'd just finished a fashion shoot titled Trust Funds & Daddy Issues. Crisp tailored coat. Designer sunglasses. The kind of posture that said, Yes, I do moisturize with hundred-dollar bills, why do you ask?
Next to him, somehow making a Ducati Superleggera look like a throne rather than a death trap, sat Harry Potter.
Black leather jacket, tight enough to annoy conservative aunts. Slim-fit jeans that had absolutely not been bought in America. Aviators. A look that screamed I know where the bodies are buried, darling, and I might be the one who planted them just to make a point.
He bit into a churro he'd conjured from God knows where and said in his smooth, vaguely amused British accent, "Alright. What's the over-under on the slap?"
Tommy tilted his head toward the CNRI building, where Oliver Queen and Laurel Lance had just stepped out into the blinding daylight like contestants in a very tense episode of The Bachelor: Exes Edition.
"She's giving him the face," Tommy muttered.
Harry, still chewing, arched an eyebrow behind his glasses. "Which face? Her 'I'd rather argue with a cactus than talk to you' face, or the 'I will murder you and bill your estate for the inconvenience' face?"
Tommy gave him a sideways glance. "The second one. Definitely the second one."
Harry whistled low. "Oof. The 'courtroom executioner' look. I've dated that."
"You've dated a lawyer?"
"Worse," Harry said, licking cinnamon sugar off his thumb with the casual sensuality of someone who weaponized charm. "An Ice Princess. Three PhDs, two swords under the bed, and a pet snake named Reginald. She dumped me with a post-it note and a frozen lasagna."
Tommy blinked. "...Romantic."
"I thought so," Harry said brightly. "The lasagna was delicious."
They watched as Laurel crossed her arms—a move so sharp it could cut glass—and leveled Oliver with a look that should be registered as a lethal weapon.
"Five minutes," Tommy said. "That's my wager."
Harry scoffed. "Pfft. Two, tops. You're underestimating just how spectacularly annoying Oliver can be. Look at that posture."
"What about it?"
"That," Harry said, churro waving like a wand, "is the posture of a man trying to look casual while being emotionally constipated. Classic tragic CW hero energy. All he needs now is a rainstorm and a dramatic piano solo."
Tommy let out a reluctant laugh. "You're disturbingly good at this."
"I know," Harry replied, pleased. "It's a combination of natural talent, British cynicism, and a tragic lack of better things to do."
Across the street, Laurel suddenly glanced toward them—and her eyes narrowed like a heat-seeking missile locking onto its target.
Tommy stood upright so fast he nearly knocked his sunglasses off.
"That look was for you," Harry said, lounging deeper onto the Ducati. "What'd you do?"
Tommy shifted uncomfortably. "She might not be thrilled that I brought Oliver here."
Harry turned to him slowly, like a cat realizing its human had spilled the treat jar. "Right. And not, say, because you slept with her while your best mate was presumed shark food?"
Tommy jerked his head around, eyes wide. "How the hell do you know that?!"
Harry gave a maddeningly calm shrug. "You reek of guilty best friend energy. It's like body spray but sadder. Also, you get this twitch in your left eye every time you say her name."
"I do not!"
"You just did it again," Harry said, pushing down his aviators just enough to make eye contact. "And now it's twitching harder. It's like Morse code for 'I definitely kissed her and now I'm in emotional purgatory.'"
Tommy groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "God. You can't just say stuff like that."
"Why not?" Harry said. "You need to confront these things. Embrace them. Feel your truth. Maybe write a song about it."
"Remind me again why I agreed to let you come?"
"Because I'm pretty and I brought snacks."
Tommy looked back across the street. Laurel and Oliver were deep in conversation. Laurel's hands were now flying through the air like angry little birds. Oliver's face was locked in the earnest expression of a man who'd read somewhere that vulnerability was attractive.
"She's gonna hit him," Tommy muttered.
"Not yet," Harry said, squinting. "Right now it's all subtle heartbreak and slow-burning rage. But she's winding up. Oh, she's winding up."
Then Harry tilted his head slightly, as if he were listening to music only he could hear.
"...Oh damn. She just dropped the 'I grieved you' card. That's a critical hit. Emotional damage: 9,000."
Tommy turned to him, suspicious. "How do you know that?"
Harry didn't answer immediately. His lips twitched, like he was holding back a secret or a particularly well-timed one-liner.
"Lip reading," he said finally. "And also magic."
"Wait—what?"
"Never mind."
"No, no, magic?"
"Tommy, focus," Harry said, suddenly serious. "The slap is imminent."
Tommy narrowed his eyes. "You're a lunatic."
"And yet here we are. Together. On this beautiful afternoon. Watching your ex-girlfriend emotionally fillet your best friend. Friendship is wild, isn't it?"
Across the street, Oliver reached out—just slightly—but Laurel took a sharp step back. The physical distance echoed like a gunshot.
Harry winced. "Oof. Denied. And that was a deep cut. I felt that one in my unresolved childhood trauma."
Tommy let out a long breath. "I should've told him. About us."
Harry turned to him, finally dropping the sarcasm. "Yeah. Maybe. But Ollie's a mess of brooding trauma and misplaced loyalty. He'd've forgiven you. Eventually."
"You think so?"
Harry stood, brushed nonexistent crumbs off his jacket, and slung one leg over the Ducati.
"Of course. He's Oliver Queen. His greatest flaw is that he loves too hard and forgives too easily. That, and the haircut."
Tommy gave him a sideways look. "What's your greatest flaw?"
Harry revved the engine and smirked. "Darling, I have none. I'm perfect. Just ask my therapist."
Then, as Laurel's voice rose across the street and Oliver visibly winced, Harry added under his breath—
"...Okay, that sounded like the prelude to a slap."
And the engine purred like a panther ready to bolt.
—
The city around them never stops. Traffic hums. A siren wails somewhere distant. But in the courtyard behind CNRI, time slows to the weight of two people with too much history between them and too few words that ever made it right.
Oliver Queen stood there like a statue sculpted out of guilt and regret. Jaw clenched. Shoulders tense. Green eyes fixed on Laurel like she was the only thing holding him to this side of the pavement.
"Laurel," he said, voice hoarse like he hadn't spoken her name in years. "I'm sorry."
Laurel didn't look surprised. If anything, her expression hardened—shoulders straight, arms crossed like a shield across her chest.
"For what?" she asked. Her tone was casual, clipped. Like they were discussing a parking ticket instead of a dead sister.
"For Sara," he said. His voice dropped even lower. "For... everything."
She let out a dry, humorless laugh. "That's a lot of ground to cover. You want to maybe narrow it down before sunset?"
"I should've protected her." He stepped forward, just once. "It's my fault. She never should've been on that boat."
Laurel didn't move. But her jaw twitched. Just a tic, but he saw it.
"You're damn right she shouldn't have been," she snapped, eyes sharp now. "But she was. And you know what's worse? None of us even knew. My parents thought she was with me. I thought she was with them. But she was with you. Sneaking off on your father's boat like it was some romantic getaway—like it wasn't going to blow up everyone's life."
"I didn't think—"
"No, you didn't. That's the problem. You never think, Oliver." Her voice cracked for a moment, but she swallowed it down. "You just charm and smile and do, and people get pulled in and—God—Sara got pulled in, and then she drowned in your orbit."
"I didn't mean for any of this—"
"You didn't mean for her to die?" Laurel asked sharply, stepping forward now. "Good. Because that makes everything okay, right? That makes it better?"
Oliver's lips parted, but nothing came out. What could he say?
She stared at him like she wanted to hit him and hug him all at once—like the ache inside her couldn't decide which way to explode.
"I wanted to hate her, Oliver," she said, softer now. "When I found out. God, I wanted to scream. To blame her. But then she was gone, and I never even got to be mad to her face. I never got to say goodbye, or yell, or forgive her, or—" Her voice caught. "—or tell her that she was still my sister. That I loved her."
"I know," he said quietly.
"No," she cut in, fierce again. "You don't. You were on that boat. You lived. She didn't. And the part that tears me up most days is… it should've been the other way around."
That hit him like a fist. Not a slap. A body blow. The kind you don't recover from.
"I know," he said again, because it was all he had.
Laurel shook her head, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. "Of course you know. You always know. You've got the guilt act down to a science."
"I'm not acting."
"Oh please," she said with a dry snort. "You walk around like the Ghost of Christmas Regret in a hood, and everyone's just supposed to bow down and forgive you because you look like you're in pain."
Oliver exhaled through his nose. "What do you want me to say?"
Laurel blinked slowly. "I don't want you to say anything, Oliver. I want you to mean something. For once. For once, I want you to stop making it about your pain, and maybe think about what you left behind."
"I lost five years," he said, almost involuntarily. "I came back and—"
"And what? Expected the world to wait?" Laurel's voice cracked again, raw now. "I waited. I cried. I grieved you. And then you show up alive, all tortured and broody, and what do I get? A ghost. A guy who looks like the man I loved but talks like someone who's been talking to his demons too long."
Oliver looked away.
Laurel wasn't done.
"I was going to move in with you, you know that?" she said suddenly, voice quieter. "Before the Gambit. I was packing boxes. I had a drawer full of your t-shirts I actually liked. I thought we had a future."
His head whipped up, eyes wide with something like hope—or pain. It was hard to tell.
"I didn't know," he said.
"Yeah, well. You didn't know a lot of things, Oliver."
A pause. Then she took a step closer—just enough to pierce the bubble of space between them.
"Sara wasn't stupid for falling for you," she said, gentler now. "She was just... human. You've got this way about you. You make people want to believe in you. You make them feel like they matter. Like you see them."
A beat. Then her lips curled upward—not into a smile, but something far sadder.
"And then you disappear. Or you lie. Or they end up dead."
Oliver swallowed. He tried to reach out, hand halfway to her shoulder. She stepped back before he could touch her.
"Don't," she said simply.
And this time, he listened.
Because for the first time in his life, Oliver Queen didn't have an answer. Didn't have a comeback. Just silence. And the echo of everything he'd already lost.
—
Oliver didn't move at first.
The door to CNRI clicked shut behind him with a finality that echoed louder than the sound itself should have. Like a coffin lid. Like judgment rendered.
He stood there—frozen on the pavement, eyes shadowed, jaw clenched so tight it looked carved from stone. His shoulders were straight, military-stiff, but the emotion in his posture was unmistakable.
He looked like a man barely holding himself together with duct tape and willpower.
Across the street, Tommy Merlyn was draped casually against his cherry red Aston Martin Vantage like the whole world was a fashion shoot he'd been born to headline. Aviators on. Elbows resting on the roof. One leg crossed over the other like his only concern in life was which brunch spot had better mimosas.
Next to him, perched on a sleek red-and-black Ducati Superleggera like it was a throne, sat Harry. Helmet resting against his hip, hair tousled by the wind, expression unreadable. His long coat fluttered slightly with every breeze. He had the kind of presence that made you wonder if he knew seventeen ways to kill you with a paperclip. He probably did.
Neither of them said a word.
They didn't need to.
Oliver finally crossed the street, his boots striking pavement in slow, deliberate steps. He yanked the door open and dropped into the passenger seat of the Aston like gravity had personally come to collect. Tommy slid behind the wheel with less melodrama, but even his usual smirk looked... tight. Hesitant.
Harry gave a lazy two-finger salute as he swung his leg back over the bike and revved the engine with a sound like a mechanical growl.
"You all good, Sleeping Beauty?" Harry called over the engine, voice laced with mocking sweetness. "Or should I go grab a violin and play you the symphony of emotional repression?"
Oliver didn't look at him.
"Drive," he said flatly.
Tommy blinked. "No brooding preamble? No bro-code breakdown of the fallout? Not even a 'hey, Laurel told me to go to hell and I'm considering it'?"
"I said drive."
"Alright, alright. Pushy." Tommy started the engine and pulled onto the road, Harry falling into a casual flank on the bike like he was born to prowl beside danger.
They rode in silence for a moment—just the purr of engines and the low city hum.
Then Tommy cleared his throat.
"So, uh… she take it well?"
Oliver didn't look at him. "Define 'well.'"
"Did it end with a slap, a restraining order, or a restraining slap?"
"She said it should've been me," Oliver said. Voice steady. Too steady.
Tommy winced. "Oof."
From the comms, Harry's voice chimed in with dry venom. "That's... delightfully brutal. Must've been like cuddling a cactus with abandonment issues."
"She's angry," Oliver said.
"She's grieving," Tommy corrected gently. "And yes, also angry. You've got the emotional accessibility of a brick wall, and she's been punching it for five years."
Harry's voice again. "To be fair, he's slightly more expressive than a brick wall. Just a touch. Maybe like… a tortured pine cabinet."
"You're not helping," Oliver muttered.
"Wasn't trying to," Harry replied cheerfully. "Just narrating. You know me—I'm British. Emotional discomfort is practically foreplay."
Tommy shook his head, smiling despite himself. "He's not wrong."
Oliver shifted in his seat, face tight. "She needed to say it."
Tommy cast him a glance. "Yeah. And maybe you needed to hear it. Doesn't mean she meant all of it."
"She did."
"No," Harry cut in. "She felt it. Big difference. People say a lot of things when their hearts are broken and their fists are tied."
They passed through Starling City's industrial outskirts, past broken streetlamps and graffiti-tagged warehouses. Harry wove through cars like a ghost in red and black, his bike humming like a predator's purr.
Finally, Tommy glanced sideways again.
"So... why the factory?"
Oliver's hands tightened slightly.
"I need to see something."
"Something?" Tommy asked.
Harry's voice buzzed in again. "Or someone?"
Oliver didn't answer.
The silence stretched between them like rubber wire. Then, softly:
"My father used to bring me there when I was a kid. He said… he said it was where he first learned what it meant to build something. To leave a legacy."
Harry's tone changed. Quieter. Sharper.
"And now?"
Oliver looked out the window. "Now I need to see what he left behind… and if any of it's worth saving."
They fell silent as the car turned off the main road, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The factory loomed ahead—massive, rusting, skeletal. Windows shattered. Roof partially caved in. Nature had begun reclaiming it.
Tommy slowed to a stop just outside the gates. "Charming. Needs a bit of paint. And possibly an exorcism."
Harry pulled in behind them, dismounting fluidly. "Or just a good demolition crew and a flamethrower."
Oliver was already out of the car, moving toward the gates with purpose. Something had changed in his posture. The haunted man was still there—but now there was steel under the scars.
Tommy frowned, grabbing his coat from the backseat. "You sure this place isn't full of squatters or hobos with machetes?"
Harry pulled out a black baton from his saddlebag. It extended with a quiet snap.
"I vote we find out."
Oliver glanced back. "I don't need backup."
Harry arched an eyebrow. "And I don't need therapy. Doesn't mean I'm skipping it."
Tommy grinned, catching up with a jog. "Sorry, bro. You're stuck with the support group. We even brought snacks. Kind of."
"Just don't get in my way."
Harry clicked his baton once against his palm, eyes glinting. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Oliver stepped through the rusted gate.
Behind him, two friends followed.
One loyal to a fault.
One dangerous enough to make hell nervous.
Whatever ghosts waited inside that factory… they were about to meet something worse.
—
The factory loomed like a carcass. Steel ribs rusting in the wind, windows like shattered eyes, and the scent of oil, mildew, and old ghosts hanging in the air like bad memories.
"Remind me again," Harry said, eyes scanning the skeletal remains of an ancient assembly line, "why we're wandering through a haunted scrapyard instead of, oh I don't know, literally anywhere else?"
Oliver, silent as ever, stepped over a broken conveyor belt. The floor crunched beneath his boots—glass, gravel, time.
"Because," Tommy replied, squinting into the shadows, "Ollie's gut said there was something here."
Harry sniffed. "And has his gut ever considered a less murder-y locale? Like, say, a bloody coffee shop? One with lighting and non-homicidal air quality?"
Oliver knelt beside an ancient oil drum, fingers brushing a dark stain on the concrete.
"Still warm," he muttered.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Unless we're talking ghost pee, I don't think that's a good sign."
"No squatters," Tommy added. "No junkies. No raccoons. Not even a rat brave enough to haunt this place."
They kept moving. Dust clung to their boots like old sins.
The central chamber was cathedral-sized and equally lifeless. Rusted machinery stood like frozen titans. Shafts of moonlight streamed through the broken roof, spotlighting nothing but cracked concrete and memories.
Oliver stood dead center, staring down at a patch of floor like it had whispered his name.
Tommy glanced over. "Let me guess—dad used to bring you here before taking over the world?"
Oliver didn't respond.
Harry cocked his head. "Oh yeah. Definitely getting unresolved trauma vibes."
"This place used to be his," Oliver said quietly. "We'd come here on weekends. He'd point to machines and say things like 'legacy' and 'future' and 'don't touch that it's toxic.'"
Harry whistled. "Well, that explains the charming neuroses."
"Place has… charm," Tommy offered, only half-sarcastic. "If you're into tetanus and ghosts with abandonment issues."
Harry rubbed his arms dramatically. "I think the mold just tried to mug me."
Still, Oliver didn't laugh.
"I mean, seriously," Harry continued. "Are we doing a nostalgia tour or prepping for a horror movie sequel? Because I forgot to bring holy water, and I'm wearing my nice boots."
"I need a moment," Oliver muttered, turning away.
"Right," Harry said, eyes darting around. "Cool. Just me then."
Tommy tilted his head. "Where you going?"
Harry gestured vaguely toward the shadows. "Nature calls. Probably gonna be eaten by a mutant ferret, but I refuse to let the afterlife say I died with a full bladder."
Tommy raised his hands. "You do you, mate. Just scream if you find a cult."
They watched him disappear down a rust-lined corridor.
Tommy exhaled and leaned on the Aston parked just outside. Oliver joined him a minute later, silent, distant, knuckles white around his gear bag.
"You okay?" Tommy asked, voice soft.
Oliver's jaw worked.
"You know this whole broody silent thing? Real intimidating. But not super helpful."
"I'm fine," Oliver said.
Tommy snorted. "Yeah, and I'm the Queen of England."
Oliver said nothing.
"Look, Ollie—this place? It's a corpse. Dig through bones all you want, you're not gonna find closure. Just rot."
"I know."
That was all.
One word. Like stone dropped in a pond.
Tommy stared at him. "You ever think maybe you're not looking for answers? Maybe you just don't know how to stop bleeding?"
Before Oliver could reply—
Click.
A sound like the loading of judgment.
Tommy froze. "Tell me that was the car door."
It wasn't.
A figure exploded from behind a rusted delivery truck.
Oliver reacted instantly—elbow to the throat, a pivot, a leg sweep. The man collapsed like scaffolding.
"Tommy, down!" Oliver barked.
Too late.
A dart whistled through the air, missing Tommy by a hair and embedding in the car with a thunk.
Tommy dropped anyway, arms over his head. "This is why I hate abandoned buildings!"
Three more attackers surged from the shadows, clad in black, moving like wolves.
Oliver met the first with a brutal hook to the jaw, ducked under a baton swing, spun low, and drove his boot into a kneecap. Something cracked.
The second one jabbed a taser toward him—Oliver twisted, redirected the shock into a steel beam. Sparks flew.
"Where the hell is Harry?" Tommy yelled from the ground, crawling under the car.
The third man fired another dart.
This one hit home—right in Oliver's shoulder.
He ripped it free with a grunt, tossed it aside, then staggered.
His vision wobbled. The ground tilted like a bad boat.
The second man rushed in—Oliver managed a knee to the ribs, but it was clumsier now. Slower.
The third attacker tackled him from behind.
Electric shock punched through his spine.
Oliver howled.
He dropped to his knees, fingers scrabbling for the glovebox.
Another blow to the ribs.
He fell.
Tommy launched himself from beneath the car and tackled the nearest guy—bad form, worse luck. A baton slammed into his back.
"Harry!" he wheezed.
And finally—
"Bloody hell!"
A voice like thunder and sarcasm cut through the chaos.
Harry returned, sprinting out of the shadows like a British hurricane.
He hurled a crowbar, end over end—it smacked one of the attackers in the side of the head.
"Seriously?!" Harry shouted. "I leave you two alone for five minutes and you're kidnapping bait?"
One assailant turned.
Harry's fist met his face.
Another came from behind.
Harry ducked, pivoted, and used the man's momentum to hurl him into the Aston with a loud clang.
Tommy, gasping, looked up. "You took your time!"
"I was peeing, you absolute walnut!"
A dart zipped past Harry's ear.
He turned, eyes blazing.
"Oh, no you don't. I skipped tea for this."
He grabbed a broken pipe from the ground and wielded it like a saber.
Another attacker charged.
Harry stepped in, fluid, brutal, precise—he cracked the pipe across the man's kneecap, then followed with a headbutt that sent him sprawling.
Oliver was still on the ground, barely conscious, breathing hard.
Tommy crawled to him. "Hey. Hey, stay with me, man—don't you die on me. I am not giving a eulogy in this death trap."
Oliver's hand twitched, reaching toward Tommy, eyes glazed.
Then his body slumped.
Tommy turned just in time to catch a dart in the neck.
His curse turned to a gurgle.
Harry stood above them now, panting, weapon at the ready—just in time to see the last attacker press a button on a remote.
There was a hiss.
Gas.
Harry's smirk faltered.
"Oh... bollocks."
His vision narrowed.
One step toward Oliver. Another.
Then everything tilted, spun, collapsed.
Darkness folded around them, swift and suffocating.
The only sound left was the wind humming through broken beams and the whisper of old ghosts, delighted at having company once more.
---
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If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!