A/N: A huge thanks goes to mindrambligs for the inspiration, collaboration with hashing out this idea as well as the most beautiful moodboard (!), as well as hope-for-olicity (jacq) for brainstorming and beta.

Chapter 1

His eyes follow her hungrily from across the street, her silhouette perfectly visible through the wide glass of the cafe's storefront window. Her hair is golden, spilling free across her shoulders in wild waves. He just loves it when she wears her hair like that. It reminds him of her younger self, sweet and innocent and free.

She is still like that, but she's also grown into a woman with beautiful curves, and he would lie if he said it left him cold.

He still can't believe it, how luck has finally, after such a long time without, graced him in the form of a greasy newspaper forgotten on a table. The past couple of months, here with her in Star City, have been the happiest he's ever been. Made him feel closer to Chrissy than he felt in years.

A car honks and it almost makes him jump out of his skin, but he's still partially hidden behind the parked car. His eyes quickly wander back to her, hungrily caressing her lovely features. She hasn't changed at all and yet changed completely. He is ashamed to admit he has no idea if he would have recognized her immediately if he bumped into her on the street.

But oh, he really wants to believe he would. Those sharp, laughing eyes, he would have recognized amongst a million.

She's smiling now, chatting animatedly with the barista while waiting for the order. It's always the same; two lattes, one with two pumps sugar free vanilla (for her) and one with cinnamon and nutmeg (for that colleague of hers, lucky bastard).

She's made it almost too easy for him; she's a creature of habit, his Lisy. He is so proud of her. Can't wait to finally meet her in person, after so many years. Can't wait to see that dazzling smile directed his way, her gentle laugh and appreciation only for him once she realizes how he's loved her, all this time.

Not too much long now, he tells himself. But still not quite yet, just a little longer.

He bids her farewell, slowly slinking into the shadows of the alley at his back. The golden locket jingles in his pocket merrily, a memento of why he is doing this, what he yet has to do.

It's time for another letter.

Xxx

Her ear is burning off. Quite literally.

Seriously, how does her mother do it? Talking without a single interruption for half an hour. And no, it's not an exaggeration; she's, in fact, timing it. Currently, she's are on minute 34 of her rant and right in the middle of a high-pitched screech before once again gushing over her newest boyfriend. Who is apparently just puuuuuurfect. One of a kind. A perfect match. Funny and smart and accomplished, on his way to achieve great things once bis bank finally approves the credit for his new, one-of-a-kind business plan.

Felicity isn't by default a mean person, so she doesn't ask her mom how her new boyfriend can be all of that and still live with his mother at fifty-one and working odd hours as a bouncer in a bar with two DUIs under his belt (yeah, she's checked). She doesn't want to be too judgmental either, Lord knows, the man could very well be a saint, if he is able to live under one roof with his mom.

Felicity has put half a country between her and her own yet she still feels like she gets more than her fair share of mother-daughter time.

Her mother lets out another exited shriek at the other end, because Dennis apparently bought her flowers and asked her on a date like the perfect gentleman he is, but the high-pitched sound makes Felicity wince. Maybe she can get away with making herself a coffee. It's not like her mom is actually waiting for a reply on her end.

Putting her mother on speaker phone – seriously, why hasn't she done this earlier? She is supposed to be a freaking genius – she crossed the open space of the loft from the couch into the open kitchen.

Switching the coffee machine on, she waits patiently for the pot of afternoon coffee to brew while still half-listening to her mother's chirping voice in the background.

A key scrapes in the lock somewhat awkwardly before the door bursts open with Curtis spilling inside, his hands weighted down with various packages, mail as well as bags full of Chinese takeout, his messenger back thrown across one shoulder, jacket across the other.

She smiles at the familiar sight and hastens to help him out, the man who would rather spend fifteen minutes rearranging the dishwasher than wash the one extra cup by hand. Same goes for packages and work materials, apparently. Grabbing the biggest box from him, she hauls it over to the kitchen island, releasing the box with a heavy thud.

"Jesus, Curtis," she admonishes, slightly out of breath. "What on earth is inside? A herd of baby elephants?"

Curtis flashes her a huge grin. "Actually, we got new joint prototypes. E-Hand-Y swears they are gonna fit this time."

"What was that?" comes Donna's surprised voice from the background.

"It's just Curtis!" Felicity calls loudly, giving Curtis a slow roll of her eyes in answer to his raised eyebrows.

"Oh, sweetheart, hi! Hope you are not working yourself as hard as my Felicity and spending some time with that hot boyfriend of yours! At least one of you two should be responsible and spend an evening at a bar somewhere, having fun."

"Hi, Miss Smoak!" Curtis calls dutifully into the general direction of the phone before he takes one of the bags, taking out the containers of food and spreading them across the counter. "I swear I am trying to take good care of your daughter. I brought us lunch."

Felicity shoots him a frown – Don't egg her on! – which Curtis answers only with a huge grin.

There is a girlish giggle before her mom's voice admonishes, "It's Donna, sweetie! How many times do I have to remind you?! Also, That's very nice of you, dear. I am sure if it were up to her, my daughter would starve herself and not even notice."

In the midst of opening up the kitchen cupboards to take out bowls and plates, Felicity doesn't suppress her eye-roll.

"Okay, you two go eat now, I will catch up with you later Felicity, okay?"

"Okay, mom."

That certainly catches her by surprise. If she knew eating lunch would give her enough reason to get her mom off the phone sooner, she would come up with a food excuse way sooner.

"Bye sweetheart. Take care of yourself. Love you."

That makes Felicity smile, because no matter how difficult the relationship, her mother's open love and appreciation for her never was. "Always. Love you too."

And just like that, her mother's voice is gone, the loft falling blessedly silent. Curtis throws her a questioning look as they work in perfect coordination opening up cartons and filling their plates while Felicity rolls her eyes again. "You don't want know. It's that new boyfriend of hers. Perfect, apparently," she says with a voice doused in irony and skepticism.

Curtis laughs softly in understanding. "You want to talk about it?"

"Hell, no!"

At that, Curtis laughs loudly. They flop onto the couch with their plates full and for a while, there is just the sound if them munching on their food.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Curtis says. "You got a letter. Not for the company but yourself. Private, it appears, though the company's name's there too, but it's too small to possibly hold anything related. Wait a sec…" He makes a quick dash to the kitchen, fetching a small square envelope from the counter before he deposits it into Felicity's lap.

Truth to be told, his very announcement has made her uneasy. She rarely receives mail. That is, conventional mail. There are of course the various company packages and documentation, contracts being delivered by couriers. But the last time she received a classic letter like this…

Her hands start to tremble when as her eyes fall onto the unruly blocked letters and she recognizes the handwriting at once. Addressed to: Lisy Smoak, Helix Consultations

Lisy. Nobody calls her that anymore. No one since her father. And nowadays, no one but the writer of these letters. It's been three months since she's gotten the last one. She would lie if she said they didn't creep her out. Always, hope beyond hope, she desperate wishes that particular package to be the last.

This one is the fifth. Her stomach churns.

"Felicity?" Curtis asks in curious tone, "Are you okay?"

No, she's not. "It's from him," she quips.

"Oh, damn! My bad, I completely forgot about that sick bastard."

She wishes she could have the same luxury to forget about him too.

"Want me to open it? You know, if there is a bomb in there, my head is less valuable than yours."

He goes for humor, but it makes her even more sick to the stomach. The Chinese food suddenly wants back up. With trembling hands, she smooths out the envelope in her fingers, feeling for its contents, but it's completely flat and thin to the touch. At least there is no jewelry inside this time.

She slips a single finger under the flap of that pristinely white envelope, easing the flap away. Her eyes fall on the stamp, showing the mail was sent out two days ago somewhere from within Star City.

Her stomach flips. God, she's already known they live in the same city, but it still makes her insides queasy with unease. There is no return address, of course there isn't, as it never is. Why make it easier on her and take away the creep-out factor?

With a heart beating wild in her chest, she opens the envelope and a single sheet of paper falls out.

She takes it into her hands and the paper shakes with the tremble of her fingers. She deliberately has to steady her hands to see the words. Her head feels light headed, heart trying hard to escape the cage of her ribs.

It's just a note, really, consisting of nothing but a few words, but the curtness makes it that much more ominous.

Soon, my love. Be prepared, for it won't be much longer. I am coming for you soon.

Bile rises in her throat, the note falling from her fingers. A hand clapped over her mouth, she dashes from the room to the nearest bathroom. Through the ringing in her ears, she doesn't hear Curtis call after her.

It's not the words however, that creep her out to the point of being physically ill. It's the ink. Because the note, those foreboding words, are written in blood.

xxx

"Oliver."

There is no response.

"Oliver."

Still nothing.

"Agent Queen!"

Oliver jerks on his spot, head swiveling towards Diggle. Blinking slowly, it takes him a while to relocate his mind back to where his body is also, his office.

His eyes cut to the small clock on the wall and okay, wow, it's late.

His eyes burn from pouring through the files the entirety of the day. The wheels of his chair squeak on the linoleum as he pushes himself back a little, running a hand through his hair while his eyes absentmindedly take in his surroundings. His desk's littered with manila envelopes, evidence sheets, glossy crime scene photos, hand-written notes, testimonies…and a single stained and – sadly – empty coffee cup.

"Oliver, you with me, man?" the voice is quieter now and Oliver finally turns towards its source.

"What?" he asks in an unnecessarily defiant voice, his hands flying up to straighten his loosened tie. Some in Diggle's face softens at the sight he makes and Oliver isn't sure he likes it.

"Man, you need more rest."

Tell him something he doesn't know already. Instead, he replies in a growly tone, "Not you too, Dig."

"Thea?" Dig asks knowingly, amusement dancing across his features.

"And your wife," he adds on a sigh, which only makes Dig's grin grow.

"She is a smart woman. And your boss," he points out pointedly even as Oliver chooses to ignore him. They've danced this dance a million times.

He has no time to rest. Not until that sick son of a bitch murdering young girls in a most gruesome way is still at large in his city. The same city his very own sister lives. So excuse him if he actually tries to make progress on a case that's been idly collecting dust on the SCPD's desk for ten long months.

It took nine months and three victims until SCPD admitted defeat and realized they were way over their heads with this one, desperately in needed of outside help. And that's where Oliver comes in.

Thirty-two years of age, he is one of the youngest FBI's elite profilers. And having spent the past week meticulously sifting through dozens of files, reports and dossiers, Oliver now has a pretty clear picture as to why to FBI's presence on this case is so direly needed.

The SCPD hasn't made any progress nor gained a single suspect in ten long months, and the city's residents are slowly starting to panic. The local media have dubbed their perpetrator the Star City Slasher (a.k.a the SCS). A fact Oliver instantly took a strong dislike against, because being given a media nickname nearly always adds to the serial killer's narcissistic feeling of power. True, it can also lessen his vigil, cause him to grow arrogant and therefore sloppier in his actions, more prone to making mistakes. But those are variables Oliver never wants to count on.

As in the case of SCS – Oliver inwardly cringes, but okay, the name has slowly creeped up on him in the last couple of days – the man hasn't done a single mistake yet. Not from anything Oliver's read so far. Nothing sticks out suggesting this would be the work of a hasty, impulsive killer. Which is that more frustrating. The character of the murders themselves…well. Apart from their obvious wickedness and excessive use of force, there is a level of peculiarity to them that conveys a message. A message Oliver has yet to uncover.

"Earth to Oliver?"

"Hmm? What, John?" Oliver asks absentmindedly, once again lost to the case when his involuntarily eyes seek out the statement of SCS's first victim Amanda Sweet's mother. A cute, young girl with long straight sandy hair, not even twenty-two years of age. Just a hair older than Thea, as all the victims are, which makes Oliver's stomach churn whenever he thinks about it. A musical arts student at the Juilliard School in New York, home for winter-break and found dead behind a dumpster in an alley, first of three. Having her throat slit, but that was not what killed her, because her murderer had a way with her before that, leaving seventeen stab wounds littering the girl's frail body.

"Oliver, you listening?" Diggle sounds exasperated. "C'mon man, I said Lyla wants to see you. Now."

Oliver forces his attention back to Dig, his eyebrows scrunching in confusion when his partner's words finally register. "What? Why? I have nothing new to report-"

"I know. I think it has something to do with a potentially new assignment."

Oliver's frown merely deepens. Certainly, Lyla knows that he has no time or place of mind to occupy himself with any other but the Slasher case. That needs to take precendence over everything and anything. Taking over from the SCPD and having to sift through ten months of leads that may already run cold, he has more than enough on his plate as it is and he absolutely refuses to divert his attention elsewhere.

Someone is terrorizing his city, he won't stand for it.

xxx

He strides into Executive Assistant Director Michael's office, his impatience pumping each of his steps.

"You wanted to see me, Director?" Lyla gives a curt nod, silently beckoning with her chin to the chair opposite her desk.

"Indeed, Agent Queen. Shut the door, please."

That does not sound good. So once shutting the door and sitting down, Oliver decides to take the proactive approach.

"Look, Lyla," he starts with a less formal address. It's public knowledge that Director Michaels isn't partial to titles. "Dig mentioned you might have another assignment for me. And thought I want you to know that I really appreciate your trust in my abilities-"

"Oliver-"

"-I also need you to know that I am knee deep into the Slasher case and-"

"Oliver,"

He just goes on. "-Until that's off the table, I can't get distracted by taking on any new-"

"Agent Queen!" Lyla snaps and there is a clear warning and command to shut up, one Oliver doesn't dare to disobey.

"Will you quiet down and listen to me for a second?" One delicately shaped eyebrow raised, Oliver knows he is in trouble. He nods docilely.

"Unfortunately, I do have an assignment for you," he starts to protest but she won't let him, "and it's non-negotiable." She heaves a sigh. "Look, the order came straight from Director Waller's office."

That effectively shuts him up, his mouth opening and closing a couple of times before he finally manages to form words. "Amanda Waller herself?"

He has never met Director Waller in person, but the woman's reputation certainly proceeds her, and if the rumors are to believe to be true, then is the FBI lead by one ruthless woman leading with an iron fist and launching a number of black ops and shady operations Oliver doesn't even want to come close with a ten-foot-pole.

"I can't be pulled from the Slasher case, Lyla," he urges, his voice suddenly pleading.

"And you won't," she promises. "You'll just have to split your focus between two cases. The second case is also here in Star City and in need of a good criminal profiler, which is, unfortunately, you, as Director Waller asked for you specifically. Don't worry, though, Oliver. If all goes well, this won't even take you that much time and you will be back with full-focus on the Slasher case in no time."

The knowledge he won't be pulled from the Slasher case is somewhat reassuring, but still, Oliver hates the idea of having to invest time and energy into something else. No less because he knows trying to solve a difficult crime can't be done in any other way than complete and undivided attention.

"What is the assignment," he asks carefully in resignation, suspiciousness lacing his tone, but Lyla smiles, knowing she's got him. Grabbing a rather thin manila file from her desk, she pushes it towards Oliver.

"Felicity Smoak. Twenty-four years of age. Former child star till the age of thirteen, she's been living in anonymity for the past decade. In the last couple of months, she's been receiving mysterious packages seemingly from a former fan. She went to police after receiving the third package, first arriving in April and the other two in June and July respectively. She claimed she was scared for her safety, but the SCPD dismissed it as an overreaction."

"What was in the packages?" Oliver thoughtfully asks.

"The first was a letter of appreciation for her former childhood career along with a bracelet, second package had another, even more personal note and a gift in the form pair of silver earrings. Third letter had a ring and a note that was apparently it for her and she went to the local police."

Inwardly, he rolled his eyes.

To Oliver, it appeared the SCPD made quite the correct assumption, for once. This didn't seem like a case at all, and it started to rub him wrong the wrong way that some former little princess wanted to drain the FBI's resources, possibly for personal gain due to the following media coverage. The media would have a field day – FBI solves stalker case of former childhood sweetheart. You won't believe it, the stalker was nothing more but an old fan!...read more on page 6.

"How do we know it's not just a hoax, a publicity stunt Ms. Smoak created herself to regain some of her former fame?"

Lyla acknowledges his line of questioning with a nod of her head. "I understand what you are getting at. However, it appears Ms. Smoak doesn't seek public attention whatsoever. She's been living in anonymity for a decade and has not alerted any media, only the SCPD about this."

Oliver nodded in apparent understanding. "Still, Lyla," he said, threading carefully. "Is this really a good cause to waste FBI resources on? Why have the FBI's top specialists deal with such menial tasks as a stalker case?"

Lyla gives him a sharp look while she doesn't mince words, "If you are asking about what's in it for Amanda Waller, I can't possibly tell you. But if I had to guess, I'd say she hopes for good publicity on a potential easy and yet high-profile case."

Oliver sighs, resigning himself to the idea of having to take on the Stalker case on. Wonderful, the Stalker vs. the Slasher. There is no doubt in Oliver's mind as to which case bears more importance. Maybe Ms. Smoak thinks she can use her former fame and call in on favors with SCPD or the FBI, but she will be sorely disappointed if she thinks Oliver will devote half of his time on her secret admirer problems, for he has a serial killer to catch.

Deciding to walk the road of the least resistance for now, he takes the file from Lyla's waiting fingers without another word, offering a nod and a superficial smile.

"All set then," Lyla proclaims, standing from her chair in a gesture of finality, "You'll find more information inside the file along with Ms. Smoak's contact and address details. Director Waller expects a preliminary report at your earliest convenience."

Oliver grits his teeth, putting on a fake smile, offering a compliant "Of course."

TBC

A/N: Dont be shy, come and share your thoughts, here or at tumblr under my nick leuska. :)