The Arrow: a dark undertaking

by riccardogrivel04

Welcome to my rewrite of Arrow! The CW series that becomes here, a narrative book with subtle differences. These differences, however, will materialize more and more, between rewrites of characters, new episodes and a reality yet to be discovered! Protecting his city from crime and corruption, vigilante hero Oliver Queen (aka The Arrow) starts his crusade, unaware of some secrets..

1. The return

1— THE RETURN.

The sea waves crashed heavily on the rocks while heavy pewter-gray clouds stretched like a solid, eerie roof over the lonely island. An icy wind scattered the leaves nearby and shook the branches of the towering trees. Along that same dense forest, a man ran while breathing heavily. At the time, he was wearing a worn, patched, dark green jacket complete with a hood and torn trousers. On his back was a small leather quiver. Continuing to run, the man jumped between slopes and slopes, reaching a rocky ledge. Shortly afterwards, to overcome a larger obstacle, the man clung to the branch of a tree and, using his legs as strength, he swung down, even performing a somersault in the air and landing perfectly on his feet. The way he moved, it seemed that this individual was gifted with superhuman abilities. He managed to leap over a large rock in the air and continued running towards a raised floor overlooking the sea: The vast and large archipelago of the island stretched beyond his sight, while the sea was moderately rough, while the continuous breaking of the violent waves could be compared to the sound of a large creature that continued to move sinuously.

Spotting a medium-sized boat in the distance, the man leapt down to the ground below. He rummaged along a bush and picked up what looked like a large green rag, from which he pulled some arrows and a splintered wooden bow. Subsequently he reached the beach where what appeared to be his camp was located; instinctively, he pulled out an arrow. It had a fiery tip, as it had just been rubbed on a large rock. Despite the incredible distance, the man shot the flaming arrow with superlative accuracy, against a pile of sticks, causing an explosion. The native fishermen of the island were alerted by the sudden powerful sound and looked at each other in astonishment. The helmsman said something in Mandarin and the fishermen reached the shore of the island, noticing the burning sticks. The man revealed himself to the two who at first recoiled in fear. There next to him, there was a small stick stacked with what looked like a half orange and half black mask. The man removed his hood, revealing a beard that almost hung off his face, a faded yellowish color. The two men approached. That man's name was Oliver Queen. He was born on May 16, 1985 in the great Starling City, into the large Queen family, a family of multimillionaires. Oliver's life had always been comfortable, he was a spoiled boy who took advantage of the family wealth to get what he wanted. But seeing this man standing there, the description doesn't really fit up well.

On that cloudy afternoon in February 2012, when our story begins, Oliver found himself finally climbing aboard, after five long years, leaving that island. In fact, five years earlier he had boarded the family boat, the Queen's Gambit with his father and a girl named Sara, the sister of Oliver's girlfriend. But the Gambit mysteriously sank and both Oliver's father and lover lost their lives, leaving the man alone on that island all that time. The name of the island on which he was found and which he was abandoning at the time was Lian Yu and it found itself lonely on the China Sea. Oliver had dreamed of that moment, for 5 long years, being able to fully savor freedom again and for just as long he had only had one goal: to survive. As they left, one of the fishermen offered Oliver a glass of water and as he sipped it, feeling the fresh taste pass through her throat, Oliver watched Lian Yu move away from her gaze. How much he had been through... the island hid innumerable dangers and these were the thoughts that inhabited the man's mind, along the navigation which was unusually calm for his tastes. To survive, Oliver was forced to forge himself, change, become a weapon. Only one thing he was carrying with him: a small black notebook. In there, there was the base that would animate his new life in his hometown. None of the fishermen asked the man any questions about what he was reading in that little notebook, but they allowed him to shave and tidy himself up a bit.

Returning home gave Oliver's heart a pang. He could already see in the distance the large and majestic towering buildings that dominated the place. Once he reached the city pier, an ambulance was waiting for him: Oliver had to urgently go to hospital, it was essential to check his condition. He got off the boat and the moment he touched the rocky floor of the pier, he felt other slight pangs: many confused emotions swirled in his mind, like a gigantic tornado ready to sweep away every certainty: 5 very long years... and now, it was finally there, knowing perfectly how he could carry out what he was planning. Oliver advanced in the cabin and two shocked and amazed paramedics followed him and the ambulance left. During the entire journey, the man didn't say a word: the atmosphere was very calmly, except the doctors who examined Oliver, noticing strange scars along his chest. When he arrived at the hospital, all the doctors pointed to him and looked at him in disbelief. The afternoon passed, during which a doctor was examining Oliver in detail, in every way: he couldn't help but notice that his body was affected by countless bruises, wounds and scars, although Oliver claimed that the island was always been deserted. His muscular body also bore a tattoo on his chest that matched his wounds awfully well: a black star.

When the visit ended, Oliver remained alone in his room, pacing around the bed. Outside the room, the doctor turned to a blonde astonished woman, Moira Queen, Oliver's mother:"Twenty percent of her body is covered in scar tissue. Second degree burns on her back and arms. X-rays show at least 12 fractures that never healed properly."

The woman was shocked: "Did he say anything? Nothing about how he got those injuries?" she asked excitedly. "No… he barely spoke." Moira sighed, worried and the doctor said to her in a peremptory tone: "Moira, I would like you to prepare yourself. The Oliver you lost... might not be the one they found." At those words, more tears ran down the woman's face, wetting the wrinkles on her cheeks and when the doctor walked away, she looked at the door of the room.

Who would find there inside her, once he crossed her threshold? No one was still aware of Oliver's amazing return. Of course, the Queen family was very influential in society in Starling City, not surprisingly, Oliver's father, Robert Queen, had founded a company, Queen Consolidated. An applied science company that created and produced cutting-edge technologies, biotechnology, green technologies and clean energy for private companies and the public. Thanks to Robert's great financial talent and Moira's management, the company was very successful and the family was able to earn profits from it. From what Oliver could understand in those few hours in which he returned home, the company had created an Applied Sciences Division, in the name of the deceased founder. Looking out amongst the city he had left so long ago he could not recognize what was once so familiar, nor the road that could lead to Queen Consolidated itself. Not unlike himself as his eyes focused on his own reflection in the glass. Oliver Queen looked back at himself. Who was he?

He had finally shaved and washed himself in those long hours and was now observing the view with a calculating gaze and an indecipherable expression. Looking out amongst the city he had left so long ago he could not recognize what was once so familiar. Not unlike himself as his eyes focused on his own reflection in the glass. Oliver looked back at himself.

Finally, Moira entered the room, very slowly: "Oliver..." she began doubtfully. Her son turned to her: "Mom." Once Moira recognized her son, she began to cry with joy, while approaching his son, who looked into her mother's eyes: a tear ran down her face, but he remained stentorian.

After what seemed like endless seconds, finally, they walked, one towards the other. "Oh…" Moira was on the verge of tears: "My wonderful boy…" and she hugged him: "My wonderful, wonderful boy…"

For a moment, Oliver looked stunned: it was such an unnatural feeling for him now… to have someone that he truly loved, someone who would hug him, feel the intense heat of a loved one's body enveloping him, like a blanket. He stumbled forward into her arms and let his emotions get the best of him, while a flood of memories, of him as a little boy, with Moira whispering to him that it was ok and she's here. Oliver didn't know how long they stayed like that: time felt slowed again, but eventually he stopped and sat back. His emotions had failed him, he had hoped to stay strong when he saw her again but that was not to be. He gave her a closed mouth smile and breathed in deeply to control himself. "Let's get you home Oliver." Moira told him. She returned the hug, also melting into a moved smile. He was finally home.

That late afternoon, Oliver was finally discharged, despite the countless bruises the man carried with him. They left by car, a private driver of the family would take them home. Along the way, Oliver carefully observed every street, every building, park or alley and when he slipped away from his gaze, he imagined him as he could really be. In his hand, he kept turning that little notebook over and he felt with every fiber of his body the fact that his city was actually dying. An example of this could be the fact that urban waste disposal was inefficient in several neighborhoods of the city, but that was the minor problem. Many individuals were poisoning his house: "Oliver, are you okay?" her mother's voice rang out next to him, snapping him out of his thoughts. Oliver pocketed the booklet: "Yes, mother... I'm very lost, I want to see if... if there has been any aesthetic change in the city..." he replied, hesitant, but showed a rather convincing smile: "We'll be home soon."

The car ride was silent, neither truly knowing what to say to the other. Oliver took the time to psychologically prepare himself for what was to come. He did not want to lose control again and he was going to make sure of that. He had plans, a promise to keep and he was firmly determined to carry it out. The emotions could have been a weakness. He couldn't let others be involved, especially those loved ones.

"No one has been told anything yet," his mother started, and he turned his head to look at her, his thoughts broken, "we wanted to avoid the media circus for your immediate return. It would have been way too much, in my opinion." Oliver nodded as she finished a thought already brewing in his mind. "Could it be held off for a few days?" he asked, giving her a meaningful look.

"I think there are people who deserve to know first." Oliver added, thinking of the Lance family, or even his best friend, or his sister… Thea. "Of course, sweetheart." Moira responded.

Oliver could see the surprise in her face at his comment, she probably had not expected the maturity he had shown. In the past, Oliver Queen was known for numerous stunts: the spotlight always caught him in the middle of unauthorized parties, not to mention the time he beat up a cameraman while drunk.
"Thea is quite nervous… but don't get her wrong, she's never really lost hope… like any of us." Moira said, as if she was reading through Oliver's mind. She was about to burst into tears again and on the way, no one said a word.

Finally, they arrived. The Queen family lived in a huge mansion located at 1407 Graymalkin Lane. It appeared immense, towering and was located just a short distance from the population centers of Starling City, near a forest. The car passed through the huge gate at the entrance, which opened with a slight creak and finally, after 5 years, Oliver saw his house again. In front of the main entrance, on a well-kept emerald lawn, well-kept boxwood borders, created according to all the canons of topiary art, flaunted. When he was little, Oliver often fiddled with small leaves. The entire structure, covered in ivy, blends well with the surrounding gardens. It was indeed a huge castle-like structure, complete with expansive lawns, grand stairways at the entrance, and cobbled stone battlements. As soon as they got out, the man looked around and everyone crossed the threshold. The hall remained identical to how he had left it: the fine wood floor was immaculate, very shiny. The entire house was built in sandstone of different textures, which gave the impression of being made of completely different materials. For the interior, rare woods were used and, of course, what Moira and Robert appreciated most of all, was the famous Canadian red cedar. An elegant fireplace also became an ornament of the large hall.

The driver approached them with a large wooden suitcase, but Oliver took it from his hands: "I'll take care of it, thanks." he told him cordially and the driver smiled at him, grateful.

Moira then reported to Oliver, her voice still slightly shaking: "Your room is exactly as you left it. I didn't have the courage to touch anything... I just cleaned it from top to bottom this morning for the occasion. When I received your call… when you were returning…" as she stopped again talking,

Oliver quickly replied: "Thank you, mom…" He smiled, looking around again. Suddenly, a man spoke from behind him: "Oliver! It's a real pleasure to see you!" Oliver turned to him. He was a tall, elegant, black man, bald. They shook hands: "I'm Walter, Walter Steele." Moira put a hand on her son's shoulder: "You'll remember him, he's your father's friend from the Company." he nodded smilingly and walked past her to the family maid, a woman of medium height: "Raisa! Nice to see you too!"

"Welcome home, Mr. Queen!" she welcomed him sweetly, and then turned to Moira:
"Ah, I wanted to tell you that Mr. Merlyn called, he would like to join us for dinner! He's coming back from his trip, tomorrow we might organize a true dinner with him too." "But it's great! she exclaimed enthusiastically: however, the enthusiasm was vaguely extinguished when shortly afterwards, a door was heard opening and closing.

"Oliver?" she asked, while her son had suddenly turned around, wary: "Did you hear?" he asked her, but there was nothing to worry about. A fairly tall girl showed up - no taller than Oliver - with long, raven hair: it was Thea Queen. "Hey, sister!" Oliver welcomed her enthusiastically... he had so missed her face, her smiling expression.

"I knew it! I always knew you were alive!" she cried, hugging him, with tears in her eyes, just like her mother: "You were with me… all the time!" Oliver assured her.

Again, he felt an internal burning: somehow, not hearing the waves crashing, the biting cold piercing his face, the pain often accentuated throughout his body as he ran barefoot along the rocks and dense forests of Lian Yu, made him uncomfortable. And at the same time, seeing Thea's face again, recognizing the house she was in relief. He had long dreamed of this moment, regardless of what he had planned. An expected problem for the boy to solve was precisely this internal conflict, but one thing at a time…

The day passed in a haze of doubt: everything that was once well known now seemed distorted. Altered. Oliver wandered sadly around his old room. His room had remained as it was in the past, as Moira had assured, but 5 years later, everything that had previously been familiar, recognizable to him, now appeared foreign and unrecognizable to his eyes. He almost no longer had the courage to look at himself in the mirror: even his reflection was unknown. So, he decided to wander around the room, lingering on the birch wood suitcase where inside was what he had shaped in that period of his life, a period of pain and suffering and darkness. He took the suitcase in his hand, opened it and took only three particular rocks, with strange symbols on it, and the notebook. Lightly feeling the leather of the cover at touch, Oliver and his mind remembered a part of the moment when it all began.

5 years earlier, Robert Queen was watching the yacht's radar. The sea was rough and the storm raged around them: "The storm is category 2. The captain recommends turning back." a crew member said excitedly to Robert: "Good, let's inform the rest of the crew." the man replied calmly: "Are we in trouble?" a drawling voice asked. Oliver Queen had come out of the bathroom, his shirt half unbuttoned and his long hair messed up: "Someone is..." Robert replied and a girl came out from another room: she was blonde, long hair and at that moment she was wearing a lab coat slightly unbuttoned on the chest, with the bra visible: "Ollie?" Sara began invitingly: "Where do you keep the can opener?" "I'll be there in a minute!" Oliver replied enthusiastically and she disappeared back into the cabin. Robert sighed: "You know, son, this story won't end well for them or for you," he told him in a peremptory tone, while violent thunder rumbled around them.

Remembering that conversation as if it were yesterday, Oliver had taken a photo of himself and his father from the first of the two bottoms of the suitcase and was looking at it. He was completely dressed up for dinner and while he was stalling on the image, leaving the room, a voice spoke from the corridor: "What was I telling you? Yachts suck, my friend!" and to this was added a chuckle.
Their eyes met, and Tommy's grip on Oliver's shoulders was firm, as if verifying his reality.

With a smirk, he quipped, "Don't you think?" Oliver's heart was warmed as his dearest and greatest friend, Tommy Merlyn introduced himself to him: "Tommy Merlyn." he said, pronouncing each letter exactly. The two friends came together, hugging each other warmly: "I missed you, my friend!" Oliver told him.

The friendship of the two had already seen its debut during childhood: at 8 years old, Rebecca Merlyn, Tommy's mother, had died and no more than 2 years later, she had met Oliver. The two immediately became friends and Tommy often visited the Queen house, even staying there longer than in his house and saw Robert Queen as a father figure to a greater extent than his father Malcolm.

"I swear, I'm so happy to see you!" Tommy exclaimed, with mammoth levels of exuberance, and then hugged his friend tightly. Once again, Oliver hugged her back, even though he felt very stiff.

The gesture alone seemed so unnatural to him. However, Tommy showed no signs of anomaly in this regard and said, "My father couldn't come today, but I couldn't resist! Shall we go down to dinner?" "Oh, is it ready yet? Then, yes of course!" And also in that period, he had also met Laurel Lance, developing a great friendship, of equal intensity to the one she had with Oliver. The reconciliation with this great childhood friend temporarily swept away all thoughts of the past and the immediate future from Oliver.

With the sun in its twilight phase, everyone found themselves in the living room with a large rectangular table, also made of fine wood. Splashes of golden light bathed some corners of the room, making the atmosphere as crisp and golden as an apple. Walter was at one end of the table and Oliver was at the other. Dinner was an awkward affair at first, no one really knew what to say. Oliver could tell Thea was trying to stay windless and not get emotional again and his mother just seemed lost and confusional at the same time. The weight of the rock in his pocket felt heavier than before, and he realized now was not the time to give it to his family. Still, this silence could only go so long.

"You were right," he started, shocking both women out of their reverie, "not much has changed around actually looked pretty familiar! Like I remember…" Oliver finished, putting on a small smile. Thea shrugged but also looked a little nervous while his mother just laughed softly before speaking as well.

"Of course, there are other aspects that have changed as well but we were advised to ease you into those." Oliver looked questioningly at his mother and sister, 'Advised? What do you mean?' he asked.

"I spoke with a specialist while we waited for your travel papers to go through. They told us to take it slow with you, especially with the public." She explained to him. Oliver nodded and wanted to ask more about what had been going on since he called her from the boat but stopped as their meal was brought to the table.

Tommy stood to his left, giving him a quick rundown of all the interesting things that had happened in town while he was gone, "Okay, what else did you miss?" Tommy began lively: "Super Bowling winners... Giants, Iron Bros, The Saints, Giants again... A black president, that's new." everyone laughed at the table.

As Oliver savored his roast beef, Thea abruptly posed a question, "How was it there... where you were?" Oliver's gaze met hers as their mother sharply reprimanded Thea, the island being a topic they were instructed to avoid. Oliver's mind raced, his most distressing memories resurfacing. Thea quickly apologized, "I'm sorry Ollie, I shouldn't have asked..."

It was a difficult question, but ultimately, he responded with a bitter, "Cold..." His voice unintentionally carried a harsh undertone. Thea, realizing her misstep, simply nodded and began to eat her dinner. For a moment, silence reigned, when Tommy spoke again to lighten the situation a bit: "These days, you and I, we will go around the city. Have you lots of things to catch up on! As soon as you feel up to it, it could be done!" he announced enthusiastically.

"Sounds like a great idea!" Moira approved. From her look, she looked like she couldn't wait to see Oliver again around town and she probably had been keeping that request inside her for a long time: "Why not? Plus, I was hoping to stop by the office!" Oliver replied enthusiastically, "Well, there's plenty of time for all that. Queen Consolidated isn't going anywhere!" Walter replied, taking a sip of wine. Oliver nodded, although he would have liked to see his father's company again.

Meanwhile, Raisa came over to place a bowl of pears on the table. But with a false step, she stumbled but Oliver with an incredible leap caught her with one hand, making her regain her balance, while with the other he took the bowl without dropping even a pear. Everyone was shocked: "Oh, I'm so sorry Mr. Oliver!" Raisa exclaimed mortified, straightening her apron. But the surprises weren't over: Oliver in fact replied cordially: "No problem." except she said it in Russian. Tommy looked at him confused and the others were equally stunned by this ability: "Dude, did you just speak Russian?" Tommy asked him. That string of Russian curses slipped from his lips, causing a ripple of shock to spread across the room. His recent immersion in the language made it all too easy to revert back to, much to his chagrin.

Raisa, in the end, broke the tense silence. "Mr. Oliver, here's your meal..." She placed a modest portion of chicken and a small salad before him. Oliver expressed his gratitude in fluent English, a stark contrast to his earlier outburst. The gentle acceptance from his family and the others was unexpected, making him feel a surge of appreciation.

"This kind of dining isn't exactly a daily affair for me," he quipped, attempting to lighten the mood and steer the conversation away from his earlier faux pas. But Walter, still as bewildered as the others, told him, "I didn't think you took Russian lessons in college." "And I didn't think you wanted to sleep with my mother."
Oliver replied, almost without realizing it: his thoughts had come out of his mouth, like cars coming out of a tunnel in single file. And for once again, an awkward silence fell in the room and the tension began to become palpable.

Moira shifted her shocked gaze from Oliver to Thea: "I didn't tell him anything!" the girl exclaimed defensively, "You didn't have to tell me that." Oliver added coldly, turning to her mother: "Oliver… Walter and I are married and I don't want you to think that any of us here have disrespected your father." "You see, we both believed that your father… just like you… was dead."

Oliver appeared visibly hurt: "Okay..." he muttered. Tommy remained in an awkward silence for a while, and Oliver felt a little guilty for his attack on Walter. The boy was constantly on alert and at the same time, he didn't want to leave that table: in front of him, he saw nothing but his mission, more and more about to begin and it wasn't the brightest of prospects.

The Queens dined in silence following the incident. Before long, Thea excused herself, citing homework as her reason. Oliver remained seated, dreading the dawn of the new day and the commencement of his upcoming duties.
"I apologize for Thea," his mother began, her voice soft. "She... she struggled with your and Robert's passing. We both did. Your return will require some adjustment." Oliver exhaled deeply at her words, acknowledging the truth in them. It would indeed be a transition for all involved.

The gentle rumble of distant thunder filled the silence, instilling a sense of calm within him. "We have matters to discuss, but they can wait until tomorrow." With that, she rose from the table, informing him of the following day's agenda and wishing him a peaceful night's rest.
"If you'll excuse me..." he began and his mother nodded: "Hey friend! Rest... I want you in shape, soon everything will be back to how it was before!" Tommy shouted back as Oliver went to his room.

A lot had changed since he left. Oliver wasn't even able to understand what it was that he didn't like about Walter, perhaps the fact that he had "taken the place" of Robert, or how scattered must have been Thea's feelings.
He walked around the room for a couple of minutes, and then went to the window: it was raining heavily outside and that atmosphere reminded him once again of that night... he undressed and changed, and then lay down, but not on his bed: Oddly, the plush mattress felt out of place and coarse beneath him. He found solace instead in the soothing rhythm of the thunder's distant rumble and the raindrops pelting the window like a barrage of tiny missiles. In less than no time , he fell asleep; however, his mind remained active retracing its steps of 5 years earlier. This time, he remembered that moment when he cheated on Laurel with her sister and the moment when hell began for him.

Sara sat behind him on the bed as he stood at the butler's bar, still clad in her choice of seductive lingerie now with her robe draped over her arms. He handed her a glass of wine and she gave him a smile that told him all he needed to know. She was feeling insecure, and not without good reason he thought. They had yet to be actively intimate with another, something he was sure she hoped her outfit would change. He couldn't lie, it had stirred the lust within him, however, he was still unconsciously holding back. Every time they started, he would see them, even with Laurel it had been like this. This was it though, and both seemed to know. Putting on his playboy façade he replied to Sara's counting and commented that the storm was getting closer. "1,2,3(-KA BLAM) It's getting closer!" Sara exclaimed, counting the seconds that separated the appearance of the lightning from the rumble of thunder: "That's not very scientific." she pointed out Oliver persuasively, approaching: "And what do you know about science, Mr. Ivy League dropout? ?" the girl asked, giggling: "Oh I actually know a lot about science! For example… I know about fermentation. This is biology! "and after that, he leaned in, pressing a fleeting kiss to her lips before abruptly pulling away. The flood of memories threatened to overwhelm him, a sentiment Sara seemed to intuitively grasp. She set her drink aside, turning back to him as she adjusted her robe over her shoulders. "Is it because of Laurel?" Sara inquired, her expression clouded with distress. "Is that why you always pull away when we get close to... something more?" Oliver found himself at a loss for words. A flash of lightning followed by the rumble of thunder seemed to echo his turmoil. Laurel was a part of the equation, but not the whole story. Just as he was about to respond, perhaps even reveal everything, a sudden noise diverted their attention.

Their glasses began to teeter on the edge of the table before they were abruptly flung from the bed, Sara's scream piercing the air. Oliver found himself sprawled next to the couch and ottoman, propping himself up shakily. Across the furniture, he saw Sara's eyes flutter open as she reached out to him from her prone position. He reciprocated, but chaos ensued before their hands could meet. The boat seemed to disintegrate around them, and as he lunged for her, Sara was swept away into the churning waters with a terrified cry: "Ollie!" Oliver's own scream of horror was cut short as the merciless sea dragged him under, spinning him in its unforgiving depths. It was a horrendous sensation, as if billions of icy daggers were piercing every single fiber of his body: "Sara, Sara!" Oliver had shouted. Shortly thereafter, he heard a crew member call his name. Desperate for air, he called out for Sara while struggling to stay afloat. His father's voice echoed his name, drawing his attention to a life raft nearby. With a glimmer of hope that Sara might be there, he swam towards it and was hauled aboard by his father and the captain. As he coughed up the seawater that had invaded his lungs, his eyes darted around in search of Sara. Her absence triggered a repetitive murmur of 'no' from his lips.

"She's still out there!" he protested, swinging back towards the edge of the raft with the intention of diving back into the sea. His father's firm grip held him back, and Oliver's shouts that Sara was still out there were met with a stern denial. "She's not there!" his father yelled over Oliver's frantic cries. "She's not there, son!" He tried to penetrate Oliver's panic, holding him tightly to ensure his safety. Together, they watched as the Queen's Gambit disappeared beneath the ocean's surface.

The storm outside the house had calmed slightly, its fury reduced to a gentle rumble. Moira awoke a few hours before dawn, her heart heavy with the remnants of a recurring dream. In it, her son and husband had returned from the dead, a dream that had haunted her for years and had intensified since Oliver's call eight days ago. She knew Robert would never return, but she needed the reassurance that Oliver was indeed alive and home. She ventured towards his room, hoping to find him in peaceful slumber, his innocence reminiscent of his younger years. The muted sound of the storm halted her steps. The door to Oliver's room was ajar, revealing him sprawled on the floor, the open window allowing the rain to drench him. She rushed in, calling his name and gently shaking him.

"Oliver, wake up. Wake up, sweetheart." Relief washed over her as Oliver's eyes fluttered open, only to be replaced by dread at the haunted look in them. Oliver reacted instinctively, flipping his assailant over and pinning them down, ready to interrogate before recognition set in. He quickly disentangled himself from his mother, sliding back against the window, his eyes wide with mortification as he began to apologize, consumed by guilt. Moira coughed as she gasped for air, sitting up to see her son, the same broken man she had comforted on the hospital floor. Robert burst into the room, watching the scene. Moira's heart shattered, tears welling up in her eyes as she realized the extent of his ordeal.

She moved towards him, the rain soaking her as she sat by her son: "You're safe…" reassured him: "You're home… the danger is over…"

For a moment, the mother's abrupt contact had triggered in Oliver a sort of instinct, a strong need to counterattack, to compensate and increase contact towards a hypothetical enemy. "I… I don't know what to think… what to say… I'm really sorry…" Oliver kept saying. After minutes, or maybe a few hours, of Oliver staying close to his mother, dawn came, allowing the storm to dissipate.

The Starling City was born as a metropolis connecting to other regions: a structure that contributed to the great fame of the city is the State Bridge, a suspension bridge that could even be glimpsed from the Queen's House, known for its giant star-shaped sculptures positioned on top of each tower. From there, immense streets, neighborhoods, parks and specific areas for various services unfolded. Not far from the small woods that surrounded Oliver's house, were the main legal structures and the SCPD, the Starling City Police Department. In a side street, adjacent to the entrance to The Glades there were the legal offices: on the third floor, several lawyers were sitting next to computers, others were rearranging folders while conversing with each other. And then, on the fourth floor, there were another little offices. The storm had subsided and only a few medium-sized clouds covered the sky, filtering the golden rays of the sun towards all over the city.

Dinah Laurel Lance exhaled slowly, her eyes closed, as her latest documents were grouped together on her desk. Becoming a civil lawyer, at the CNRI, in the Glades, had been a deliberate choice—one she knew would be challenging and heart-wrenching. Being a lawyer was also a heavy human responsibility, and it wasn't her unique one: she was also a volunteer helper in a center for kids who had problems with school and homework. Some days, like today, were harder than others. She needed time to decompress after the intense hour-long session. She had been very busy, especially with the latest clients. With pen in hand, she began her ritual of recapping the session. It was a habit she'd developed early in her career. Writing helped cleanse her of her own emotional turmoil, which often ran high.
That's why the knock on her door startled her. Joanna de la Vega, her assistant, peeked in with an anxious expression.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Laurel, but there's a new problem. Or… maybe not as new as you think, but we have some news." Johanna''s voice was hushed, and also exasperated: "Adam Hunt?" asked Laurel. Joanna nodded.

The following hours were not very pleasant: Adam Hunt's case was perhaps one of the most complicated and dangerous Laurel had ever faced. "Come on Laurel, we're lawyers, not… miracle-creating wizards!" Johanna exclaimed, brushing her long black hair out of her face, at a certain point of the discussion:

"We can't win this case." she declared to her friend. But Laurel responded determinedly. "If we can't win a class action lawsuit against a man who defrauded hundreds of people out of their homes and life savings, then we can't call ourselves a legal aid office." and another woman who was eavesdropping spoke from behind them, amused:"And if we go bankrupt in the meantime, we won't be a legal aid office anymore. Hunt has an army of lawyers and they are ready to bury us at the first opportunity." "You and me against an army. I love these odds!" the girl exclaimed to her friend: for her part, she sighed, ironically raising her eyes to the sky: "Why do you hate me?" and Laurel laughed.

On the other hand, Laurel Lance would never have given up. Ever since he had that job, his aim was to represent the vulnerable and help people: 'Adam Hunt had apparently defrauded hundreds and hundreds of people out of their homes and life savings through his company, the Hunt Multinational.
The girl sat on a desk and stared at a blackboard pinned with newspaper clippings and photos of Adam Hunter, a bald man with a cynical look, his eyes narrowed to slits. But then she got distracted, again, by Johanna.

"Ehy… I'm sorry to bother you again, Laurel, but there's a newscast I think you should see." Johanna spoke quietly and with an anxiousness Laurel didn't like. She closed her notepad and wheeled over to her computer before going to the Starling City News website. The headline hit her like a punch to the gut: "Oliver Queen is alive." Trembling, she clicked play on the news report. The newscaster's words confirmed what she'd feared: "Oliver, the Starling City resident presumed dead, had been found on an island in the North China Sea—the sole survivor of some unknown ordeal."

Laurel stopped listening at that point. It couldn't be true! Her sister, Sara, was now definitely gone, and Oliver was alive. Anger surged within her—a rage she'd thought had dissipated over the years. Only the touch of another hand brought her back. Johanna crouched beside her, holding her hand in a comforting gesture. The world had shifted, and Laurel was caught in its tumultuous wake. Laurel lingered on that headline for a few moments, when she heard a distant television voice: "And in other news, the details about the story of the castaway you've all heard about... the son of a very rich billionaire will soon become a legendary story . Jessica now has more details and the full story of the castaway." the journalist announced enthusiastically."

Laurel moved her attention from the blackboard to the TV. The news was spreading with impressive speed and through the office, other workers were astonished: the girl approached the TV, turned it off with a shocked look and everyone looked at her; she dropped the remote control on the table and walked away, while painful memories surfaced... when she discovered that her boyfriend Oliver Queen had taken his sister, not only betraying Laurel, but leading to Sara's death.

"I need to go check on my father, please, can you cover me for today?" asked Laurel quickly to her friend, who nodded calmly. Laurel stood there a couple of moments more taking deep breaths before exiting her office and going to the only place she knew her father would be after this.

At the same time as the turbulent effects that the news had on the legal office where Laurel worked, even at the Queen house, the day was not the best. Oliver seethed with anger as the news of his survival spread like wildfire. He'd wanted to break the news to the Lance family personally, to spare them the shock and media frenzy. But fate had other plans.

The morning had already been surreal—his mother's sudden marriage to Walter Steele and the interactions between them were so strange for Oliver and sharing an awkward lunch with them didn't help. Now, Walter and his father were glued to the phone, managing the fallout from the initial broadcast. The house phone rang incessantly. Meanwhile, Thea, who'd skipped school, dealt with a barrage of notifications on her phone. Before the chaos, Oliver had cherished the day spent reconnecting with family. The crisis had disrupted that, leaving him less time for personal matters and more for the pressing issues at the foundry. The silver lining? His best friend, Tommy, would join them for dinner one more time. Even his father's unexpected presence added intrigue. Thea's reaction to the Merlyns joining them was a storm of emotions—she'd barricaded herself in her room, tossing clothes around in frustration.

Now, near the front door, Oliver studied old family photos. One image, of him and his father, held his gaze briefly. The door swung open, and Tommy walked in purposefully: "How are you doing? I still can't believe it…" announced Tommy, still surprised about the media storm.

"Neither do I…" replied Oliver: "Dude, literally now the whole world knows you're alive, still breathing! And is here too, to see you…" "Tommy, are you still talking behind your father's back? That's another thing I actually missed!"

Their laughter echoed through the hallway, drawing Moira and Walter to greet the reunited Merlyn men.

Malcolm Merlyn's hearty handshake welcomed Oliver home. Thea emerged, her outfit reflecting both irritation and curiosity. The pieces were falling into place, and Oliver wondered how this unexpected twist would reshape their lives.

The dining room was bathed in warm candlelight as dinner was served. Raisa had prepared a simple yet satisfying meal for Oliver. Tommy, looked momentarily puzzled by the Italian fare but soon caught on. Meanwhile, Malcolm and Walter, deeply engrossed in a conversation about their respective companies, occasionally glanced at Oliver. Malcolm was the CEO of the Merlyn Global Group, a company who had deep ties with the Queen Consolidated. The man could be often recognized for his charismatic smile and expressive blue eyes. His appearance is typically well-groomed, and he carries himself with the confidence befitting a performer of his stature. That was a synonym of the same company.

Moira, chimed in sporadically, her attention divided between the meal and Thea, who sat across from her. Thea, ever perceptive, seemed to sense her mother's watchful eye and remained quiet, avoiding direct engagement with Oliver and Tommy, who were talking about an hypothetical excursion through the City, so that the boy could recover and familiarize with what he had been distant with for so long.

As dessert arrived, the room fell into an expectant hush. Malcolm Merlyn, leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Oliver. "You're different, Oliver," he stated, the weight of his words hanging in the air. "I just wanted to ask you… what do you remember of that moment? When the Gambit sank?"
The question cut through the room, leaving Oliver torn. Once again, those terrible flashes of Sara drowning down, animated Oliver's mind: "It's ok if you don't want to answer… I can barely imagine what you've been through. I… I just wanted to be aware if your father told you something important… that refers to all of us." But Oliver didn't replied, again. The only shape of that specific memory was way too heavy.

"Will you be seeing a therapist to work through your time… there?" Under normal circumstances, seeking therapy might be wise, but his situation was anything but normal. His mission required secrecy, and constant scrutiny would jeopardize it. His mother had already reached out to someone, and Oliver hoped she didn't expect him to comply. Moira, always poised, answered on his behalf. "While I appreciate your concern, Malcolm, it's ultimately Oliver's decision." Her unwavering support surprised even Oliver. He mouthed a silent 'thank you' to her. Malcolm leaned back in his chair, contemplative.

"I apologize, Moira. You're right, of course. Seeing him so stoic, knowing the memories he carries… I grew concerned." His gaze shifted to Oliver. "Don't worry Oliver. If you ever need someone to talk to, my door is open." Oliver nodded, acknowledging the unexpected olive branch.

The room buzzed with unspoken tension, and Oliver wondered how this newfound understanding would shape their interactions moving forward: "Knowing the help I needed after Tommy's mother's passing, I just wanted to make sure you got the help you needed." Oliver could hear the sincerity in the man's voice. Tommy, though, seemed surprised by his father's words.

"It's ok Mr. Merlyn, I understand your concern, but I don't think I'm ready to talk about anything yet." Oliver replied to which Malcolm nodded and smiled at. Taking a breath Oliver stood up asking to be excused. Moira granted his request and as he left Tommy reminded him about their outing the following day.

Oliver's mornings were a blend of discipline and anticipation. The Queen estate, sprawling and lush, provided the perfect backdrop for his training regimen. He jogged along the perimeter, the rhythm of his footsteps echoing the cadence of his thoughts. His bow was never far from his mind. Itching to feel its weight in his hands, he vowed not to let his archery skills dull. The mission loomed, and he couldn't afford complacency. Oliver continued to run along the huge garden on Queen's property. The fresh dawn air was like a balm to him, and from time to time, he seemed to hear again the echo of the waves's roars of the sea, the undertow that reminded him the breath of a sleeping creature. After keeping himself in practice, Oliver reached the back of the house.

There, two white marble tombstones were situated. The boy approached, peering first at his own headstone that read his full name, year of birth and presumed death. The episode was eerie, but in that gloom, there could be glimpses of comedy: standing before one's own grave, despite being alive, certainly gives a certain effect. Soon after, however, Oliver turned back to his father's grave: unfortunately, he could not benefit from that bizarre moment when, in life, he could peer at his tombstone.

"Hello Dad…" Oliver began in a very serious tone: "I'm going to start honoring the promise I made to you. Now that my body has become a weapon, I know I can use it to strike at those who have betrayed this city. I know that you were also part of this list. But it is also true, that it will also be thanks to you... The disease that infects this city will soon be eradicated."

Though patiently, now Oliver's first major thought was to begin his crusade. The foundation of it largely involved Oliver's father. The memory of how all that knowledge had spilled over on him in a disruptive way was painful but also radical: to honor his father's memory, Oliver Queen would become someone else... Something else…

Thanks to some contacts with the local Bratva division, he could ensure his equipment remained in place, ready for action. Arrows, meticulously fletched, awaited their moment. The quiver, snug against his back, held the promise of justice. Oliver's resolve was unwavering; he wouldn't wait idly. The crusade would begin soon, and he'd be prepared. Prepared Just like his father, when he passed this task to his son.

Three was all that was left, Oliver sat frozen against the side of the raft, Robert was digging through a bag beside him, and the captain was busy setting up a purple light atop the inflated beam overhead. Robert seemed to find what he was looking for and uncapped a jug and handed it over to Oliver, telling him to drink up. The captain shouted at him: "What are you doing!? That's all that we have left!" "If someone is going to survive, that must be him, first!" exclaimed Robert. The cool liquid had done nothing for Oliver's shock but had dissolved the nausea churning in his stomach. The announcement from his dad that Oliver would be the one to survive if only one of them made it out had him turning to his father out of shock and worry.

"I'm sorry son, I thought there'd be time. I failed, I failed you and your sister, your mother, and I failed the city." Robert declared to him his confusion. "We all did."

Indulging some more at his father's grave, Oliver noticed a girl walking toward the entrance next to Thea. Oliver found it quite anomalous that his sister was in the garden so early and with a friend: he could hear Thea saying: "Neither Tommy wouldn't believe me, besides, something between us could even change!" Yet, amid the sharpened arrows and honed muscles, one thing gnawed at him—the enigma of Thea's reaction to Tommy and her recent behavior. His best friend, seemingly oblivious, hadn't hinted at understanding her interest. Oliver wondered what secrets lay hidden within the Queen mansion.

Thea and her friend Leah, hurriedly returning from school, whispered conspiratorially. A white powder dusted Thea's desk, and Leah deftly scooped it into a baggie. Thea handed her a pill bottle, their clandestine exchange a dance of secrecy. For a long time, almost 6 years (probably Oliver's "demise" had accentuated this need) Thea had felt the need to vent, to let herself: "Where did you get them from?" asked Thea in amazement: "Roxie." she said simply. The knock on the door disrupted their choreography, and panic set in. They scrambled to conceal their secrets, Thea's announcement masking their urgency. Whoever stood outside would find a façade—a family united, yet harboring mysteries.

Thea invited whoever had knocked to come in: "Ollie!" the girl exclaimed cheerfully, seeing her brother approach her: "No one has called me that in a long time, Speedy.." Oliver replied back: "worst nickname ever." Thea retorted, amused.

"What, he always ran after me as a child! I thought she fit in pretty well. Maybe it's still good." Oliver declared: "See you at school... Speedy!'" spoke Leah, laughing cheerfully and leaving the room: "Sorry... about her, she came this morning..." "I have a souvenir for you!" her brother interrupted her. Thea looked at him in surprise: "Didn't you bring me a souvenir from the island?" He took out a stone that looked like an arrowhead, with some characters engraved on it: "It's a Hozen. It is the symbol of reunion, according to Buddhists. I kept it in the hope that one day it would reunite me with you," he explained to her.
Thea appeared visibly moved and her heart sank.

"A rock! How sweet." Tommy's lively voice rang out behind them. Thea and Oliver laughed, "You know, I want one of those t-shirts that says 'My friend was a castaway, and all I got was this shitty shirt.'" "Don't let it get you into too much trouble.. Go easy..." Oliver hugged her affectionately, when a grunt from behind made them separate: "The city awaits us, friend!" "Received!" and the two walked briskly out. Down the hall, Tommy finally felt free to say it: "Have you noticed how sexy your sister has become?" Oliver glared at him, without saying anything.

"Ah man..." Tommy began as they were on the street: "Your funeral sucked." he announced carelessly, as if speaking to a person who until recently was thought to be deceased was an everyday thing.

"Well, then it's a good thing that this "funeral" can now be canceled..." he replied darkly, seeking a balance in that conversation: "Dude, come on, listen! You know, I'm counting on another goal-rich environment for your welcome home party!" he exclaimed enthusiastically.

"My… what?" Oliver asked confused, "You're back from the dead. A party is needed. Tell me where and when. I'll take care of everything." Tommy took a fork in the road that led to a rather rough corner of the city.

"And this city has gone to pieces. Your father sold his factory just in time. And anyway, why do you want to go through this neighborhood?" the friend asked curiously: in fact, Oliver had taken him to a small neighborhood on the outskirts: there was his father's old factory, a large building that stood alone but stentorian in that neighborhood. He contemplated the structure for a few minutes and for respect, Tommy didn't say a word.

Finally, Oliver answered his friend's previous question: "For no reason..." And for a while the two remained in silence, exploring the city. Everything now was extremely alienating for Oliver, he felt every meander of corrupt darkness along the streets. His flow of thoughts, however, was broken by Tommy, like a huge dam blocking the river.

"What did you miss most, the steaks on the palm tree, the drinks at the station, the sex without sense?" he asked laughing, but Oliver responded with one, single, word: "Laurel." Tommy looked almost astonished: "Everyone is happy to see you and you want to see the one person who isn't?" but Oliver was adamant.

In the past day, Laurel's world had been a tempest of emotions. The dimly lit bar had been her compass, leading her to her father, Quentin, who sat there, eyes locked on a glass of bourbon. The bartender, a silent witness, confirmed that Quentin had been perched on that barstool for half an hour, lost in contemplation. No words exchanged—just a shared silence that stretched into the night.

Later, Laurel guided her father to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, their footsteps echoing through the quiet streets. She lingered, ensuring he wouldn't slip away before heading home. The silence enveloped her, a fragile cocoon shielding her from the fear that Quentin might erupt or spiral into old habits. His sobriety, a fragile thread woven over four months, teetered on the edge. He continued to say: "How can it be...? No, it can't be, no...". Laurel looked at him worriedly, feeling a pang in her chest. Her father was behaving exactly as he had during the time Sara's death was discovered. An internal agony, accentuated by painful memories, guilt, hatred and the desire to throw oneself down.

But there was another storm brewing within Laurel—a maelstrom of emotions stirred by the unexpected return of Oliver Queen. Conflicted didn't begin to describe it. Her feelings were a tangle of grief, rage, solace, and relief, each emotion vying for dominance. She wished she'd had time to sort it out before the world discovered Oliver's reappearance. The flood of texts and calls from friends, classmates, and professors threatened to drown her. Yet, the one call she yearned for remained silent—the one from her estranged mother. Years of absence hadn't prepared her for this moment. But she had her father, and he had her; perhaps that was enough. Back in her office building, the familiar walls embraced her. The silence of the previous night had given way to resentment during lunch with Quentin. He hungered for a confrontation with Oliver—one-on-one, no holds barred: Laurel wondered if their words would clash like thunder or if fists would fly. She'd listened as Quentin poured out his heart, but she sensed that fate was already knocking at the Queen residence's door. The storm was far from over. And at CNRI, the situation was very turbulent: the reason could be found in a name: Adam Hunt.

"Laurel, I've just received this dossier from Hunt's legal hounds!" Johanna's voice crackled with urgency as she thrust the folder into Laurel's hands. The paper smelled of ink and intrigue, its edges crisp against her fingertips.

Laurel's brow furrowed as she scanned the contents.

"Change of venue? Now we're dancing in Judge Grell's courtroom." The words tasted bitter, like a shot of cheap whiskey. She knew the game—Hunt's greasy fingers had dipped into Grell's campaign coffers. Corruption, woven into the very fabric of justice. Where did it end? "He's got Grell on his payroll," she spat, her anger a wildfire threatening to consume reason. Johanna's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Being your friend is a wild ride, Laurel. I've lost count of how many times I've said, 'I told you so.'" Her laughter danced on the edge of recklessness.

"But Adam Hunt isn't smarter than us," Laurel retorted, her resolve steel:"He's just wealthier and more willing to dance with the devil." Johanna's tone turned imperious. "We can't stray from the path of law," she warned. "Justice awaits at the end." It was a mantra, whispered by her late father—a beacon in the storm. "Your father's favorite quote," Johanna teased, her laughter echoing through the dimly lit room. "Hello, Laurel..." The voice sliced through the air, and Laurel's spine stiffened. She didn't want to believe it, not until she saw it—the ghost from her past, Oliver Queen, standing there, a living contradiction.
The news had whispered his return, but reality was a different beast altogether. Tommy was at her entrance and Oliver tried to smile at the girl. The latter's face was almost expressionless. Laurel and Oliver went to the girl's private office, bathed in sunlight from the window: "You attended the faculty of law. You said it!" Oliver told her cheerfully. Seeing that face again gave him hope, even if he felt disgusted, as if someone had put him in the rubbish bins, for what he had done a long time ago: "Yes... they're all proud of me." she replied expressionlessly.

Oliver thought perhaps it was best to change ground: "Adam Hunt is a hard hitter. Are you sure you want to get in the ring with him?" he asked her: "5 years on a desert island and what you want to talk about is Adam Hunt?" she replied back the girl, shocked: "No, not really…" "Why are you here, Ollie?" Laurel cut in.

"To apologize. It was my fault and I didn't want you to blame her." Laurel looked vaguely amused: "For what? For falling under your spell. How could I blame her for doing the same things I did?" she told him contemptuously: "I never wanted…" "she was my sister. I couldn't be angry because she was dead. I couldn't suffer because I was so angry. That's what happens when your sister dies while fucking your boyfriend. We buried an empty coffin... because her body was at the bottom of the ocean where you left her. You should've died in hell, down there!" throughout this speech, tears appeared on her face: "I know it's late, but I'll tell you: I'm sorry."

The words hung in the air, suspended between them like a fragile bridge over a chasm of memories. Laurel's response was a storm brewing. "You… sorry?!" Her voice cracked, a fissure in the dam of her emotions. She regretted the outburst immediately; vulnerability was a luxury she couldn't afford. "Sorry does not cover what you did," she continued, her eyes twin flames of accusation. She wouldn't let him see her weakness, not after all he'd put her through.

He nodded, as if acknowledging the weight of her words. "I took Sara on that boat," he confessed, each syllable a confession etched in stone. "I knew it would hurt you. I didn't think I deserved you anymore." The admission hung heavy in the room, a pendulum swinging between remorse and defiance. It was mostly unbearable. Laurel's voice remained steady, a tightrope walker navigating treacherous terrain.

"My selfishness, my weakness cost you more than a broken heart," she said, her gaze unyielding. "I tried to get you to open up, those days. I knew something was wrong, I was trying to make you talk, to help,but you wouldn't." The silence that followed was a canyon of missed chances and the refill was as sharp as the arrows waiting to be shot. Oliver reached into his pocket, pulling out a weathered photograph of Laurel. The edges were frayed, the image faded—a relic from another lifetime. "In the early days," he began, his voice raw, "I looked at this every day. Promised myself I'd come back, be the man you deserved." His fingers trembled as he handed it to her, a fragile offering. Laurel's scoff was a whisper of disbelief.

"You lost it." she said, her tone edged with bitterness. "Survived another way." She studied the photograph—their smiles frozen in time, innocence before the fall. "Your memory saved me," he confessed, gratitude etching lines on his face. Oliver moved toward the door, his hand resting on the cold metal of the knob. "I wish it was her standing here with you," he murmured, his gaze lingering on her.

"I'm sorry." The door swung open, and he stepped into the unknown, leaving behind echoes of regret and a love that had fractured like glass. Tommy was waiting for Oliver at the entrance. Before going out, turned around to see that Laurel was still facing away from him moving to her desk. He gave a polite thank you, just for that conversation and exited, Tommy following quickly after him. The two exited the building and turned to the alley that held Tommy's car: "I'm not going to ask you how it went, but… I'm with you, no matter what…" Oliver couldn't help but smile at him.

Although, during the rest of the day, smiling became a very difficult action to perform. Oliver couldn't forget his ex's hurt and penetrating look. Over the course of those five years, Laurel had been a constant in the equation, a linchpin in his mind, a spur to his survival. But there was no hope of reunion. Walking along the streets, Oliver finally decided to at least try to distract himself a little, or at least divert those gloomy thoughts from his mind.

"Okay, we've taken care of that. Good choice. Now we can make up for lost time. If you're not too sick of fish, I suggest finding some models with legs and eating sushi all day. What do you say?" he asked enthusiastically.

But before Oliver was able to say "No"a sudden creak of hinges diverted their attention. A man stumbled out, clutching a trash bag, and chaos erupted. A van hurtled into the narrow alley, disgorging three figures—masked, armed, and menacing. "Shit," Tommy muttered, the single word encapsulating their predicament. "Let's get them!" one of them shouted: "What the hell…?" Tommy said, fainting: Oliver, shocked, tried to remain standing and a large man, with a dirty chef's apron, came out to take away the garbage, when he saw that sight: "Hey!" he shouted but Oliver watched in horror as a man shot him 3 times with a rifle. His body fell, lifeless and Oliver's vision went blurry as the other men were gagging Tommy. He swayed, the dart's venom weaving through his veins. But before he succumbed, a blow struck his temple, and oblivion claimed him. Perhaps as a defense mechanism, as if to cling to a handhold, Oliver's mind resumed the journey that began 5 years ago…

Robert cradled the water jug, its contents dwindling like hope in a storm. The raft bobbed on the merciless sea, carrying three souls—two living, one haunted. His son, Oliver, remained silent, the specter of the Lance girl's death etched in his eyes. Robert's resolve solidified; he couldn't bear to witness his son's demise. "There's not enough for all of us," Robert murmured, the words a desperate prayer. He leaned toward Oliver, their breaths mingling in the salt-laden air. "You can survive this," he implored. "Make it home. Make it better." Oliver's silence was a canvas of unspoken fears. His body was in excruciating pain, severe chest cramps and a biting cold. It was almost dawn and the lifeboat was sailing uncontrollably and slowly along the sea, whose undertow was heavy and threatening, as if someone below them enjoyed shaking it: "You can fight the pain. You have to do it. You have to make up for my mistakes. You can cure the disease that I have inflicted on the city. the poison that has spread among people as dishonest as me and worse." Oliver was shocked: "Dad… please… what are you saying…?" tried to say weakly: "Save your strength…" Gently, Robert eased his son away, cocooning him against the elements. His gaze shifted to the other occupant—the former captain, a man whose sins weighed heavy. Robert's fingers found the gun hidden among the meager supplies. It was a choice, stark and brutal. The man pleaded, eyes wide with terror, but mercy had no place on this unforgiving raft.

The trigger yielded willingly, and the bullet tore through the captain's chest. He crumpled, a sacrifice to desperation. Oliver scrambled, eyes wide with horror: "DAD, what…!?" Robert met his gaze, every unspoken truth etched in that final look. "Survive," he pressed into Oliver's soul. Then, with a resolve that defied the abyss, he raised the gun to his own temple. The gunshot echoed across the water.

"Mr. Queen, wake up, Mr. Queen." The voice scraped against Oliver's consciousness as the hood lifted, revealing a grim tableau. Zip-tied to a chair, he faced three men—a trinity of menace. The first wielded a taser, its electric promise crackling in the air. Beside him, the second gripped a dart gun, while the third loomed over Tommy, still unconscious, an automatic weapon cradled like a harbinger of doom. "I ask questions, you answer them or…" The taser pressed into Oliver's chest punctuated the threat. "Understand?" The man's eyes bore into him, demanding compliance.

"Yes," Oliver growled, rage simmering beneath his skin. The first question sliced through him like a blade: "Did your father survive the accident?" His father—the key to secrets and shadows. Subtly, Oliver worked the zip ties, a silent rebellion. Another jolt of electricity granted him freedom, his scream swallowed by the room's walls. "He did," he confirmed, his choice made. His father's words were a weapon now, aimed at these men.

"He told me to kill all of you.."

Laughter erupted, mocking his predicament. Oliver displayed his broken ties, defiance in every line of his body. The response was swift. The interrogator lunged, taser poised, but Oliver intercepted the arm, the dart gun wielder stumbled, and the one who'd dealt the blow crumpled. Oliver's gaze flickered to Tommy's assailant, weapon raised, before he seized a chair, swinging it like a pendulum. Oliver was in his full essence, his instincts were his only guide. With a swift glance, he assured himself of Tommy's safety, by checking his pulse. The chair behind him became his weapon of choice and swung it around to knock into the man taking aim with the dart gun. Watching the man fall to the floor and the dart gun skitter across the floor Oliver quickly spared another glance at the automatic weapon seeing it leveled towards him. The boy, with a sudden snap, moved to the left as shots rang out in the warehouse, positioning himself so that his interrogator now stood between them.
He had no time to spare though as the sound of the taser had him hold the chair up just in time for the arm clutching it to crash through the back rungs. Oliver wrenched one of the rungs loose, directing the man in front of the one with the gun to keep him shielded and shoved the broken chair piece into his interrogator's chest: "HOW CAN THIS BE!?" screamed in fear the criminal, shocked. Oliver let the body drop and turned to the other one and blocked a punch high before using that specific instant to force the man in front of a spray of bullets that shielded Oliver from being ridden with holes.

Oliver let the body drop and saw the last one take off in fear. Running to Tommy he knelt and quickly moved him in a safer position. Then, feeling a steady rhythm he charged after the runaway, not seeing Tommy's eyes open for a brief second. Now outside the last man ran for his life, terrified and stabbed by confusion,not understanding how things went south so quickly. It was supposed to be an easy job, that idiot playboy had been marooned for years. Hearing rapid foot falls he looked back to see the maniac still coming for him and let loose with a blind spray from his gun. Navigating the rooftops, he ran down some stairs to his left and tried to get out of eyeline. Hearing grunts he turned back again to see Oliver Queen launch himself from above and using the wall across from him as a launch point to continue his pursuit. Ripping off his mask the man crashed through some doors hoping to find somewhere to hide. That was when he felt a body from behind barreling into him and forcing both to the ground and his gun sliding ahead of him.

The boy rolled forward to put himself between his last kidnapper and the lost gun. He was glad he did when the man pulled a small knife from his boot and swung wildly. The kidnapper got up and thrust the knife towards him, and Oliver blocked it wide. Oliver's agility was his shield, he was careless and ready. The knife, a desperate plea from his adversary, was met with deft precision. Bones yielded, and cries of agony filled the void.
In other words, Oliver, once he grabbed onto the man's wrist, he made an impressive move: he attacked and made a sharp twist hearing the snap of bones forced the man to call out in pain. In the end, Oliver used his hold on the man to maneuver his head under his arm: "No… what…. How!?" the man called out, scared: "You've killed that man." said Oliver coldly, emotionless.

Oliver's grip was unyielding, his presence an inescapable fate: "Please… you don't have to do this." "I'm sorry… but I have to. Nobody can know my secret." The sound of the broken neck bone popped in the air, almost as if it were a gunshot. Oliver looked at the corpse that until just before had been a frightened, living body. His mind was working very fast: between doubts about who those kidnappers were, why they were looking for information about his father, and all the adrenaline in his system, there was no room for other emotions. For some reason, having snapped that thug's neck had somehow emptied Oliver of many worries, as if he felt lighter.

At Queen mansion the situation was really turbulent: the mother had discovered everything thanks to a rotary phone that Oliver had found in the warehouse: in a flash, the police had arrived and after a few questions to the two confused boys, they had taken them home. They found themselves in the living room and waiting for them were Moira, Walter and detective Quentin Lance, who had arrived on site. Seeing that tall man, stroking his long beard, with the blue tie and the badge shining on his belt, Oliver felt his stomach turn. That same detective was Sarah's father… Quentin's skepticism hung heavy in the room, like a thick fog refusing to dissipate.

"So that's your story?" he asked, his voice dripping with incredulity. "A guy in a green hood ran in and took out three men, saving you for no reason. And you have no clue why or who he could have been?" Oliver shifted uncomfortably in the hard-backed chair. He knew how absurd it all sounded, but it was the least, for him. The mysterious hooded figure had swooped in, a blur of emerald fabric and lethal precision. Oliver had been disoriented, barely registering the chaos around him. The man had dispatched the assailants effortlessly, leaving Oliver bewildered and alive. This is what Oliver told him.
"No Detective," Oliver replied evenly, "but if you find him, you could always ask him." He tried to maintain civility, despite the weight of guilt he carried. The detective's hostility was understandable—his daughter's death had occurred on Oliver's watch. Still, he wondered why Quentin Lance had been assigned to this case. Perhaps it was a twisted form of punishment.

Detective Lance turned to Tommy, who sat on the adjacent bed, pale and disoriented. Tommy's eyes met Oliver's briefly, uncertainty flickering within them. "What did you see?" Lance prodded. Tommy's voice wavered. "Blurred movement," he mumbled. "I was too out of it to comprehend anything." "A few days back and already back in the limelight," Lance muttered, more to himself than anyone else. Oliver's mother, Moira, bristled at the detective's tone. She had endured enough scrutiny since her son's return. Oliver admired her restraint as she shot a warning look at Lance. Oliver pressed on, ignoring the tension.

"Have the men been identified?" he asked. Lance's partner, a seasoned cop with a world-weary expression, leaned against the doorframe. "We're running prints through databases," he replied. "But these guys are pros. Doubt we'll find anything concrete." "Probably looking for a payout," Lance sneered, "figuring you'd pay a 'Queen's' ransom for the prodigal son. After all, what wouldn't a parent do for their child?"

Moira's patience snapped. "I don't appreciate your tone, Detective," she said icily. Oliver knew this wasn't their first clash. The tension between Moira and Quentin had simmered for this time, Oliver was there too… it was their first encounter since that night…

Walter stepped in. "We'll be in touch if the boys remember anything," he said, ushering the detectives toward the door. Quentin shot one last venomous look before allowing himself to be dragged away by his partner. Oliver excused himself, promising Tommy he'd return later, for that kind of "party".

Tommy's welcome back party was the last thing on Oliver's mind, but he nodded when his friend mentioned it. "Send any requests my way," he said.

After the kidnapping, Oliver was more alert than ever. During the fight, he had felt the same emotions he had felt shortly before his return home... the ability to kill... The kidnapping had never been foreseen, but it was a confirmation for the boy: although disconnected, the two things seemed to have a certain connection. His crusade had to begin. And he knew exactly where to start. At the CNRI, in fact, Oliver had learned of the latest actions of Adam Hunt, a rather familiar name. So Oliver remained in his room: he sat at the desk and turned on his old computer. When the screen asking for the unlock password appeared, Oliver lingered on the keyboard for a moment. 5 years and despite their eternity, in that moment, they seemed to have flown away, like autumn leaves swept by an impetuous wind. After thinking for a moment, he wrote down the password and had full access. He opened the Internet and began to gather as much information as possible on Adam Hunt.

Furthermore, he had recovered an old newspaper copy from Walter from which he cut out the individual's photo, studying it carefully. He had already read that name... After having scrutinized the image thoroughly, Oliver opened a new tab on his browser and typed the title of the article from which the cropped photo was taken. Immediately, several results appeared and by opening the search in the category: "Images" he found a vast repertoire of articles about him. Subsequently, he took the old black notebook again and opened it: on the first page, there was a list of various names, all in black ink. He ran his finger down the soft old page until he found it: Adam Hunt. If he was on the list, then he had to be destroyed…

"He has changed. It's not like her to read a book." Oliver looked up to the source that suddenly stopped his thoughts: Raisa was on the threshold of the door, smiling and with a large and precious tray in her hand. Returning her smile, Oliver flipped over the notebook and closed the Hunt web page, then addressed her fully:

"I missed you, Raisa." he told her with a broad smile, also alluding to her culinary skills: "No cooking on the island?" he asked her ironically: "No... and not even friends..." he replied, getting up, and then looking at the tray: there was a large plate of sausages and chips: "Hey... Thanks!" he exclaimed enthusiastically, taking the tray that the waitress handed him and placing it on the nearby sofa.
"Do I look that different to you?" Oliver asked, well aware that in Lian Yu, everything about him had changed: "No, he's still a good guy." Raisa replied, stroking his shoulder: "Wow, we know that's not true..." Oliver replied calmly, recalling his previous experiences, such as having hit a cameraman who framed him while leaving a nightclub: "She has a big heart ." Raisa insisted: "I hope so…" he replied, thinking of Laurel and Sarah: "I want to be what you expected me to become." he announced determinedly and Raisa nodded, leaving the room.

Oliver went back to the notebook again… he knew just how he could become a better person and that list was proof of it. The following morning found Oliver already awake and contemplating his route to the city. His plans were abruptly halted by his mother, who intercepted him in the foyer. Standing there was a man in a functional business suit, exuding an unmistakable air of military experience. Oliver's intuition kicked in, and he sensed the gravity of the situation. "Oliver," Moira's voice was unwavering, "I'd like you to meet John Diggle. He'll be your bodyguard and companion from now on."

Her tone brooked no argument, but Oliver couldn't resist pushing back. "I'm not convinced a bodyguard is necessary," Oliver replied, meeting her firm gaze. Moira countered with practicality, emphasizing their limited driver options and her role as his mother—his safety was paramount. Reluctantly, Oliver acquiesced.

The drive to the city was marked by silence. Oliver had divulged only a vague destination to his new bodyguard. As they approached the city limits, he plotted his escape. It needed to be swift, and he had to let John Diggle feel in control. Initiating a conversation, Oliver asked the simplest of questions: "What should I call you?" John Diggle glanced at him through the rearview mirror before responding.

"Diggle's fine, or just Dig," he answered crisply, a reply honed from countless repetitions. Oliver studied him briefly before inquiring about his military service. "Yes, sir. Army. 105th Air Division in Kandahar, discharged. Retired now, shifted to private security four years ago." Diggle's next words carried weight.
"Now, before talking about anything else, let's clear some things. Your safety takes precedence over comfort. We're in unique circumstances. Work with me, and I'll do my best. Do we have an agreement?" Silence hung for a few seconds until Diggle called out, realizing he was alone in the backseat. Diggle slammed on the breaks taking a quick look back at the rest of the car. Not seeing Mr. Queen, he swiftly got out of the car and began searching for him in the streets and the sidewalks. Muttering a curse at the lack of his presence he knew he was in for it.

Oliver made his way down a sidewalk in the Glades, keeping his head down trying not to attract attention. He eventually stopped in front of a gate that held an old business venture of Queen Consolidated, a steel factory. Taking a quick glance around he clambered over the fence to the other side and walked towards the factory. Getting in the building was easier than he anticipated and was glad to see he wouldn't have to deal with any squatters. Glancing around he was glad to see that despite the mess overall, it looked like he remembered. He just needed to make sure all of it met his standards. The factory had the potential to be a perfect cover for what Oliver had in mind: the fact that just at the entrance gate of an abandoned factory, there were several signs: "DO NOT ENTER, DANGER!" it could have been a small but effective defense. An old, faded logo read as a sign: "QUEEN CONSOLIDATED INC." He opened the door and examined the place. The large entrance hall was completely abandoned, but Oliver had reason to believe that some of the systems were still working. He also knew of the existence of an underground floor and a basement, for some work that his father carried out with the forge and found the switch that opened that room from the floor, near what looked like a huge incubator, but it was broken. However, there was a large pickaxe nearby and he dug violently, breaking all the bricks and opening a small breach, revealing the underground floor.

In no time at all, with the help of a platform and a large goods lift, Oliver opened a complete passage and knocked down the wooden walls that kept the place closed and entered. The room was dark and damp and seemed almost completely dismantled: only a large sheet metal table reigned in the center. Oliver put all the bags there and looked around. It was a perfect place to organize. And so he spent the next few hours, extracting long cables and various equipment from his bags: taking out a flashlight and shining it around once he made it to the bottom, he found a tarp that seemed to have a pile of items beneath it. Throwing the tarp aside Oliver took an appraising look at what lay beneath. A letter was taped to a box, retrieving, and opening it he read in a quick scrawl in Russian 'For my favorite American.' Oliver smiled a little, before taking stock of the equipment. A generator was the first to catch his attention, he scanned over a functional computer system, a few collapsible tables, and chairs, and two chests. Kneeling he once again found a lock that he quickly solved to unlatch and opened a wooden chest. Inside were many items but he only had eyes for two, taking out and looking over a green hood before setting it down gently and removing a bow. He grasped it hard, his resolve building as he looked over all the items once more. It was time to get started.

He mounted LED light panels in a beautiful emerald green color around the metal table area, which gave the room a swampy atmosphere. 3 small computers were mounted on the table, one desktop and 2 other very old but perfectly functional laptops. One of them, which appeared to be a military computer, was busy loading some automatic commands into a black prompt, while the central one was already turned on: a page on city maps was open on the small monitor and the other laptop was open on the online newspaper.

It took most of the day, but Oliver had done what little cleaning was necessary for the basement and set up the equipment. The generator blew through gas, but it was only a temporary measure. The computer was all set and ready to go, and the other tables held his archery equipment and whatever else he ended up needing. Looking over the setup he noted how bare it was, he would need to do more once he had the time. Time, he had planned to have, the abduction forced his hand though, accelerated his timetable. He could of course blame himself for his actions, but he couldn't deny that seeing Adam Hunt's name in Laurel's office had lit a fire in him. He moved to the computer, pressing play on a news report for Adam Hunt. Moving past the table he lifted his bow and began shooting at a target he'd set up. He wasn't rusty at least, and it felt good to have the bow back in his hands: years and years before, he would never have thought that that weapon would be the symbol of his justice.

The arrows were also of major quality, and he made sure to train with both his lethal and nonlethal arrow heads. He groaned as he brought up a mask from his neck, grumbling about loss of vision but lamented that he knew of no better way for concealing his identity. He'd need practice with it on though. He sighed, he put on the quiver, putting the past out of his mind for a while and set an old tennis ball launcher to shoot 9 tennis balls into an empty area of the room next to the wall. The instant they bounced on the ground, scattering in that area, Oliver drew his bow and shot 9 arrows with unprecedented speed and precision: in less than no time, in fact, all the arrows had hit the targets, driving the balls directly on the wall, piercing them. Satisfied, he put down his bow and turned his attention to a report open on a computer screen: "The lawsuit alleges that Hunt committed multiple acts of fraud and theft against the city's less well-off. Laurel Lance, a city lawyer..." the commentator said, but Oliver closed the window and opened the little black notebook: on the pages, there were several names in black, it was a list. And among those names, there was him, Adam Hunt.

His crimes went beyond fraud and theft, but he was always able to intimidate, bribe or kill anyone who got in his way. But he hadn't met Oliver yet… and so he opened a map on his computer, tracing his possible location or route to follow, starting from his office and stood up, looking at the hood again. Shortly before his return, he had learned to give shape and meaning to his bow, to every arrow he shot, to that hood and to every scar and injury that he now carried with him. It was time to start. The parking lot was deserted and dimly lit by lamps of a beautiful cobalt blue color. Being at a -1 level, you could barely hear the sound of other cars at surface level. Careful footsteps echoed across the parking lot, the noise bouncing off the thick walls. Adam Hunt was walking towards a car with a group of men and looked quite frustrated: "Remind Grell that he occupies that place thanks to me and that he can lose it at any moment!" "Yes, sir." the man next to him replied, "And the problem with the lawyers… you said it would've been a solved matter! I told you to fix the situation!" he exclaimed angrily. At the man's blank and embarrassed look, Hunt stopped: 'Why are you still here?' he snapped, and the man quickly left.

Hunt shook his head in annoyance as the man rushed off and continued his trek to a car. A hiss in the air and the crash of the overhead light had him stopping in his tracks and looking back in confusion. The men froze, while all the other light bulbs suddenly blew up, as if something had whizzed by at super speed, piercing them. Everyone turned quickly and soon after, one of Hunt's bodyguards was pierced by an emerald green arrow: "Unh…!" and she fell to the ground with blood spilling onto the dirty parking lot floor. Hunt shouted and footsteps could be heard and a bow drawn across the ceiling: "Off to the car!" the other bodyguard shouted, shooting towards the ceiling. The sound of gunshots rang out violently: "What the fuck is going on!?" Hunt exclaimed as the Guard continued to fire. But a cold and strangely distorted voice boomed behind them: "Hey! You missed me..." taunted the hooded man, who had apparently managed to aim from a ledge of a pillar that stretched across the ceiling and leap down after them, before the bullets even hit him. A fraction of a second passed before the hooded man decided to shoot another arrow at the right kneecap of the Guard, who fell to the ground screaming in pain. Not even an instant and again… woosh and the glass of the window of the black car where a distraught Hunt was huddled, shattered: "What… no, wait!" A man in a green hood brought a bow crashing through the window by Hunt before reaching in and pulling the man out. Hunt was groaning out in pain as he questioned what the hooded man wanted with panic in his voice." P-please… what do you want…" he whimpered, rubbing his head, in pain: "You… please…". Although Hunt was quite a portly man, at this moment, he trembled like a child: "You will transfer 40 million dollars to Starling City bank account 1141 by 10 pm tomorrow night!" Oliver shouted, barely looking at the individual from his hood, with a look full of contempt. Although Hunt was terrified to see such a figure, armed with a bow and arrow, standing there before him, he had the courage to reply, "Or else?" Hunt spat out, his avarice outweighing his fear.
"Or I take it, and you won't like how." the attacker answered before shoving Hunt roughly into his car making him stumble to the ground. Hunt got up quickly seeing that his attacker had moved away and called out into the garage that he was a dead man if Hunt saw him again. An arrow hissed through the air one last time and embedded itself in the door frame inches from Hunt. The hooded archer took his leave, and Oliver Queen felt pleased and satisfied.

Later that cloudless night, Oliver stood on the sidewalk waiting, everything had gone according to plan. He had managed to avoid killing anyone and his message had been delivered. Picking up his phone to check if any funds had already been deposited, he wasn't surprised to see nothing. Actually, it might have been naive to think that Hunt would let go of the money so easily, and Oliver didn't yet have a reputation that would scare him. A pair of headlights made him put his phone away and smile as he parked, and John Diggle got out. "I half expected at least a SWAT team, I'm sure my mom gave you a hard time." Oliver joked. "I didn't tell her, I just made a few stops here and there. I figured you'd call me when you were ready." John Diggle surprised him with his answer and Oliver said so. But Diggle wasn't done yet: "Mr, Queen, as I told you before, let's avoid this type of misunderstanding." Oliver nodded back and that was all.

The next morning, Hunt had called the police directly to his headquarters: his men had ended up in intensive care and the man had never felt such anxiety: his empire, his life's work, was about to be shattered by a Robin Hood wannabe… the very thought made him shudder, even when Detective Lance, his partner and other cops had arrived.

"He was wearing a hood, a green hood, and he had a bow and arrows!" he exclaimed to the policemen, who eyed Hunt with a perplexed look: "What is it, you don't believe me?! That maniac sent two of my men to the hospital!" shouted Hunt impatiently. Detective Hilton took the arrow, examining it carefully: "Well, thanks for his statement. We will issue an arrest warrant for... -he looked at the arrow for a moment and then returned to Hunt- Robin Hood?" Hunt didn't appear flattered by how Lance was making light of the situation: "Hey, man. I'm not some shopkeeper who got robbed, I'm going to the front of the line! He said he'd be back here by 10pm. Make sure you're here first!" he burst out impetuously, even though his clenched fists betrayed his anxiety: "He can coordinate with Mr. Drakon, my new head of security." and a rather large man with a crew cut and a crescent-shaped scar on his forehead. Everyone present looked at each other for a few moments: "Uh... okay. We're going, then." Arriving in the elevator, the two exchanged excited glances: "It seems that Queen told the truth." Hilton told him: "It would be the first time."

Lance replied bitterly. The fact that Oliver was right, somehow, really annoyed him: and in the same way, he was starting to despise that Vigilante too: perhaps it had a lot to do with the fact that that Hooded Man had taken a liking to Oliver.
Once they arrived, Oliver emerged from the uninterrupted flow of precise thoughts and complicated plans. He was almost certain that Hunt would never hand over that money and during the journey, he had studied Hunt's central structure, the most convenient points from which to enter and escape. As he got out of the car, keeping his distance from Diggle, he took out his phone and checked the timer: 9.07 PM. There were still 53 minutes left. Indeed, Oliver had not expected Hunt to repay the debt by 10:00 in fact, he was sure that he would not. But this was only the beginning.

What distracted him was the sudden echoing and resounding of a song: "We are the Champions" and Tommy's ringing voice from afar: "Oliver! Man, this way!" he exclaimed, quickly pointing at it: "Give a warm welcome to the life of the party!" And everyone cheered as Tommy dragged Oliver into the crowd: "Welcome back, Ollie!" "Hey Ollie, you're home again!" some girls shouted. He smiled, but didn't really look at them. When he noticed all those stinging glances, he broke into an even wider smile and went up on stage nearby: "Yes, thank you all!" he exclaimed, "Ollie, Ollie… here!" Tommy handed him a glass of spirits, which Oliver emptied in one gulp, then shouted, trying to match Tommy's energy: "I MISSED TEQUILA!" and the whole crowd clapped and shouted again. The music boomed so loudly that even in the nearby buildings, the sound echoed as if there was a very agitated wandering spirit. As luck would have it - or maybe not really chance, but a careful portion of Oliver's plan - Hunt's headquarters was located right next to Oliver's party venue. The men, coordinated by Drakon, were arming themselves, ready to welcome the individual armed with a bow. Hunt walked briskly across the room: "What's the commotion?" he asked irritably to Drakon, who replied calmly: "Ah, it's the celebration for the one there... the one saved from the island." Hunt snorted and walked away.

Meanwhile the party raged and Oliver was next to Tommy. He seemed to be constantly waiting, which Tommy couldn't help but cheerfully dismiss, saying, "Hey, does he wipe your ass too?" Tommy asked, pointing to Diggle, who, under Oliver's repeated insistence, had kept his distance, keeping an eye on Oliver from afar. The bodyguard's gaze seemed neutral, as if he was used to all those parties.
However, he never took his eyes off Oliver for even a moment: "By my rough estimate, you haven't had sex in 1,839 days. As your sidekick, I highly recommend Carmen Golden."

Tommy continued, pointing among a series of half-naked girls, one with blond hair who was dancing happily: "Do you see the one who looks like the Twilight chick?" "What is Twilight?" Oliver asked: "It's better if you don't know…"

Tommy replied with a note of disgust in his voice. Oliver's gaze, however, was quickly distracted by the sight of his little sister present there. Or at least, Oliver remembered her as her little sister, but she had grown and changed... And worse still... the girl was talking to a strange individual who was secretly slipping a small bottle into her hand. Oliver's jaw clenched, as if he were remembering something... a painful, dagger-sharp memory: "I'll be back in a minute..." she murmured to Tommy, walking towards Thea.

Seeing him go away, Diggle also moved, so as not to lose sight of him: "Ollie, hi there!" her sister exclaimed enthusiastically, while her brother pulled her away from the crowd a little: "This party is amazing!" "Who let you in?" Oliver asked without preamble: "Someone at the door who said please, this way, come in Miss Queen" he explained calmly and chuckling: "You shouldn't be here." Oliver replied gruffly. Thea's smile faded, replaced by a look of doubt and indignation: "I'm not 12 anymore..." "No, you're 17..." Oliver retorted her again: "Ollie... I love you. But you can't come back here and just… judge me! Especially to look like you!" exclaimed Thea: "It must not have been easy for you, when I was far away..." her brother replied with a note of remorse in her voice: "Far away? Distant!? Ollie, you were dead…" her sister replied, this time backing away: "I went to my father and brother's funerals." "I know…"

Oliver replied before being interrupted again: "No, you don't know anything! Mom had Walter and I... no one..." Oliver didn't know how to respond and lowered his head: "You and mom talk as if you had forgotten these 5 years! Well, no, I can't! So I'm sorry if I'm a big disappointment..." and her tears began to run down her face: "But I can't do anything about it! I'm like this now and after what I've been through... can you even blame me!?" Oliver looked at her again, but Thea turned away: "Leave me alone." and she quickly left. When he reached her friend, she asked, "Do you still have your candies?" "Yes, they're here…" Thea murmured looking in her purse, but strangely she didn't find anything there: "No, I must have dropped them…" Meanwhile, Oliver was walking away, still embittered by the conversation with her sister. Shortly after, he took the vial Thea had taken out of his pocket and threw it into a nearby bin. Behind him, she saw Diggle looking at her with a strange smile, but Oliver responded with a neutral look and turned away from him too. As he trudged through the crowd he bumped into a person: "Oh, sorry…" but he was surprised to see who it was: Laurel. They both looked at each other confused: "You're here..." Oliver said, confused, remembering their last conversation: "Tommy... thinks we have too many years behind us to leave things as we left them." Oliver smiled: "Can we talk somewhere a little more private?" The girl nodded and they walked away. Tommy watched the two walk together outside. He didn't seem very happy with his choice to let Oliver and Laurel talk but on the other hand, he had lived all the best moments of his life with them.

"I didn't expect you to seek me out, this soon at least." Oliver told her, having an idea of why she was here: "I'm… I'm sorry for what I told you. It wasn't fair…" "If I could take Sara's place right now, I would do it. WIthout thinking twice." said Oliver firmly, when the guilt trip stabbed him again: "Talking about her…I need to know. did…. did she suffer?" Laurel whispered out.
Oliver thought back to the moment he last saw her, it wasn't an easy answer. He could be kind though, for Laurel. "No." he answered her, and a weight seemed to lift off her. Her next question caught him off guard, not expecting that she would care at this point.
"What was it, Oliver? What did you do that was so bad that you would do that with her?" Laurel asked, her eyes were beginning to well up. Oliver looked away in shame, he'd thought a lot about why he had done it, why he hadn't just talked to Laurel. All seemed so simple now, all that hurt could've been easily avoided. Did Oliver really need 5 years of hell to understand the gravity of his actions and responsibilities?

The answer was clear to him, he'd been afraid. He still was, but words spoken to him long ago on the very thing came to his mind as he stayed silent. "You still won't tell me, will you?" "Does it matter? Whatever my reasons, whatever my intent, it's only the consequences that matter." he repeated a revised version of words still ringing in his head.

"Of course they do!" her words sounded soft but heated at the same time. "You took away my choice, MY choice, and condemned my sister for your cowardice." Oliver looked at her unflinchingly, nothing she said a thought that had not already occurred to him. "When you came by the other day, I thought you might be different. And maybe you are… that island changed you… you may be even darker just like the abyss in which now Sara is buried." She walked away, hurt and tears beginning to drop down her face.

Oliver stood there for a moment after, his own pain at his actions eating at him. Everything had gone wrong... he could have easily avoided those actions. And instead, in front of him, he saw nothing but a mission and the cancers that were poisoning the city. Would he really spend his life, with a bow in his hand and an endless hunt? The answer came promptly as his phone went off signaling 10 p.m. It was a lever for his brain: the feelings of guilt drowned, submerged by the waves of determination. It was time to make his move, he just needed to lose his shadow. He made his way to the service corridor, with Diggle following him closely.
Once inside Oliver leaned his back against the wall, hoping he would take the bait as an invite to come closer: "You better come back to your party. A few smiles could improve your evening... "said Diggle . Oliver watched him. "I attempted not to eavesdrop, sir. While I may not be privy to the entirety of your history with her, it's evident that both of you are deeply wounded." Oliver suppressed any emotional reaction to Diggle's words; he had a mission to fulfill. As he closed the distance, Oliver seized the opportunity. Diggle, unsuspecting, had lowered his guard, anticipating a prolonged emotional exchange. Instead, he found himself in a chokehold, rendered unconscious by Oliver's swift action. Before departing, Oliver offered a brief apology.

In the dimly lit atrium of Hunt's opulent office, Quentin stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a handful of S.W.A.T operatives. The air was thick with tension, amplified by the presence of Hunt's personal guards and the head of security. On the opposite side, Hilton, their backup, maintained a vigilant watch, waiting for the elusive Archer to make his appearance. The clock had inexorably ticked past 10 p.m., and still, nothing stirred. Nerves frayed, adrenaline humming, the team tensed as the elevator's metallic chime reverberated through the space. Weapons snapped up, trained on the elevator doors, ready to unleash a storm of firepower. But when the doors slid open, revealing an empty carriage, a collective murmur of confusion swept through the room. The tension eased slightly, and the S.W.A.T members lowered their weapons—just a fraction. Then, a hiss—a sound barely audible—and a thunk. An arrow materialized, embedding itself into the polished marble floor. Before anyone could react, gunfire erupted. Hunt's crew sprayed bullets, their faces contorted with rage and fear.

Quentin's eyes narrowed as he studied the arrow. Its shaft bore an intricate device, a blinking green light. "You missed," a voice, dripping with sarcasm, echoed from the shadows. In the blink of an eye, the green light turned crimson, and the arrow detonated in a controlled explosion. Bodies hit the ground, seeking cover.

And then, like a phantom, Oliver appeared. Hooded and clad in a sleek suit, he descended from above the elevator shaft. His movements were fluid, calculated, his blows incredibly precise and flawless. He assessed the chaos below—the fallen, the disoriented. The small explosive arrow had done its work, but some still clung to consciousness. Oliver's gaze locked onto one of Hunt's henchmen. With lethal precision, he drew an arrow, released it. The projectile embedded itself in the man's shoulder, forcing him to drop his weapon and collapse, howling in pain. To his right, a pair of SWAT officers regained their bearings, aiming their guns. Oliver rolled, narrowly avoiding a hail of bullets. His next move was swift: a blunt-tipped arrow aimed at the helmeted head of one of the SWAT team. Impact. The officer staggered backward, crashing into his comrade. Both crumpled to the floor. From there, he used his bow as physical offensive weapon, hitting some security guards with his extremities, and then lunging towards a column and using it as a jumping point to hit his opponents with impeccable precision.

"Shoot him, you idiots!" A furious voice erupted from the ranks of Hunt's men. Oliver darted behind a marble column, evading the onslaught of gunfire. His eyes scanned the room—more SWAT personnel were stirring, reaching for their fallen weapons. Without hesitation, Oliver closed the distance to the nearest SWAT officer. A powerful kick to the back sent the man hurtling into an opposing column. Unconsciousness claimed him, leaving Oliver free to continue his relentless assault. The archer moved swiftly towards the closest to him and kicked the SWAT in the back hard, launching him into the opposite column rendering unconscious. More gunfire rang out and Oliver felt several bullets go wide, a few finding home in a SWAT member next to him. Once more taking cover behind a column, Oliver waited for the firing to stop before taking a peek around the column to see the closest shooter. Reeling back, he pulled an arrow from his quiver and took aim from around the column firing into the leg of one of the shooters. Then, he moved in a slide, moving towards a column on the right. As she did so, she threw the bow at her enemies, causing it to spin through the air during the throw, as if it were a disc.

Those fractions of a second in which the SWAT members were distracted were radical: Oliver hit one of the members with a spinning kick and used his shoulders as a springboard, to move more quickly, dispersing the others. Feeling movement beside him, Oliver's instincts kicked in. He ducked, sweeping his leg in a fluid motion, upending the assailant. As he moved atop the fallen figure, Oliver recognized the face—Detective Hilton. Without hesitation, he delivered a punch that sent Hilton reeling. Oliver's gaze shifted, and he plucked a flechette from his arm. With precision, he hurled it at another of Hunt's men, striking the man's hand. The gun clattered to the floor as pain forced the man to release it. Retrieving his bow, Oliver fired at yet another of Hunt's henchmen, pinning him to the wall. Detective Lance stirred, groggy but recovering. The remnants of the explosive arrow still clung to him. Oliver acted swiftly, forcing Lance's head against a nearby column, rendering him unconscious once more. But danger came from behind. A SWAT member lunged, pushing Oliver against the marble column. Grunting more from annoyance than pain, Oliver countered, driving his elbow into the man's face. The SWAT officer stumbled back, momentarily disoriented.

Oliver's quiver yielded another blunt-tipped arrow. He unleashed it, striking the last remaining SWAT member squarely in the chest. The man crumpled, defeated. Now in the atrium's center, bow drawn, Oliver scanned for any lingering threats. Movement caught his eye—a flicker of menace. He shooted an arrow, rendering another of Hunt's men useless.

Yet victory was elusive. Oliver found himself tackled, propelled through the doors into Hunt's office. His assailant had exploited the distraction, closing in and disarming him.

Bow abandoned, Oliver hit the floor, his adversary looming above. A fist descended, but Oliver's mask absorbed the blow, sparing his nose from breaking. Drakon was indeed stronger and more trained than the others. Reacting swiftly, Oliver retaliated, striking the man's chest. He wriggled free, the two combatants exchanging blows. With impressive strength, the archer broke free from Drakon's grasp and twisted his arm. Drakon tried to put pressure on the archer's free arm, but it was a mistake: with a lethal technique, Oliver overturned him, making him violently hit his head against the table, and then rolled towards him and immobilized his head with his legs, thus preventing Drakon to reach the gun that was near him. With Drakon defeated, the Archer recovered the bow and took aim at Adam Hunt who was trying to escape, using the situation. While throwing his hand back to his quiver, searching for the ridges of a particular arrow. Standing swiftly back up once he had it all in hand, he drew his bow string back and leveled his aim at Hunt. Hunt threw his hands up immediately asking for mercy.

"Adam Hunt, you have failed this city." Oliver growled out. Hearing the groans of the men in the atrium and stumbling foot falls he aimed to the side of Hunt's head and released his arrow which stuck to the wall, next to the office computer server: "You missed…" Hunt scoffed, again his pride that surpassed his fear: "Did I?" asked instead Oliver, ready to shoot another arrow. Detective Lance made his way into Hunt's office, fully recovered, gun in hand. But in the blink of an eye, the Archer had shot another arrow at a light bulb on the ceiling, which had rekindled as the police reinforcements entered and moved quickly. "Stop! Stop!" Lance shouted, but Oliver leapt backwards, throwing a flechette at Hunt's remaining men who had joined the patrol: the sound of glass being punched was heard where Oliver had seen the flechette's trajectory. . Lance and Hilton immediately headed to the window and gasped as they saw the Archer swinging away on some sort of grappling hook, holding onto it with his bow, sliding over it to the building across the street: "Tell me you've noticed that too…" said Hilton, still shocked, to Lance, who gave the order to move out and the group moved to inspect the building. Upon entering, they quickly realized that for an effective search, they needed to halt whatever party was underway. Lance made his way to the DJ booth and instructed him to cut the music. He then radioed for the search to commence.

As expected, he received affirmatives from those mobilized, and Tommy Merlyn approached him, inquiring about the situation.
"SCPD business, Mr. Merlyn. The party's over," Lance informed the young man. "Apologies, but you won't be drugging anyone special tonight."

Suddenly, Oliver Queen's angry voice rang out as he approached, having overheard Lance's comment. "Why are you barging into a private party and insulting people, Detective?"
Oliver questioned, glancing briefly at Tommy, who had turned pale at the detective's words.

Quentin explained, "There was an incident across the street. The suspect entered this building—the hooded savior, to be precise." Oliver offered to expedite the search and even proposed a monetary reward: "EHY GUYS! A reward of one million dollars, for whoever finds a crazy guy in a hood and arrows!" The room erupted in laughter at his seemingly absurd suggestion.

Fueled by adrenaline and frustration over the suspect's escape, Quentin confronted Oliver. "Did you even try to save her?" he demanded, his anger barely contained. Oliver felt an unpleasant sensation in his chest. A hand on Quentin's shoulder signaled his partner's intervention. "Did you even try to save my daughter?" Quentin repeated quietly, seething with rage. Hilton led him away, leaving Oliver Queen lost in his memories. Oliver composed himself as the detective vanished into the crowd.

He knew the truth—he had tried. But it was a truth he could never reveal. Shaking off his thoughts, he joined the DJ on the platform, signaling for the music to resume. Following his friend to the bar, Oliver noticed Tommy's observation. "Funny how the hooded guy showed up across the street after you chose this venue," Tommy remarked, leaving Oliver deep in contemplation. "Just be glad you're alive to wonder about it Tommy." Oliver said, in his mind referencing the abduction. "Why would Lance accuse you of drugging someone?" he thought a change of subject would be best. He regretted it though when a pained look came across Tommy's face.
"There was an incident, not exactly my fault but Lance never lets me forget it." Tommy left it at that, and Oliver knew not to push. He just nodded and looked up at the building across the street.

Adam Hunt was currently screaming at his accountant asking how $40 million dollars had gone missing. By his side, Oliver checked up his phone: the arrow with the trojan installed had affected the server, gaining access to Hunt's bank account and from there, the virus meticulously installed by Oliver, via USB stick embedded in the arrow, had allowed a transfer of the amount. Adam Hunt was ruined. And his name could be crossed from the list.

Laurel sat in her living room staring at the business's bank account in wonder. The full amount that she'd been swindled out of by Adam Hunt had appeared on the account. She'd called her friend Joanna to ask if a settlement had been reached or something else. Joanna had advised her not to look too much into it, that she wasn't the first of Hunt's clients they had calling in asking the same question. More was going on apparently, but Laurel wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth, per her friend's advice.

Laurel was now on her way to the office, excited to tell Clara the good news when she saw Tommy climb out of his car at her approach. "Can I help you, Tommy? She asked, not really in the mood to deal with another rich man.

"I didn't expect to see you last night, especially not disappearing with Oliver." Tommy said, and Laurel groaned. She really didn't want to deal with his insecurities right now.

"Nothing happened, not that it's any of your business." Laurel replied, only to have him ask if she was sure about that. "Yes Tommy, there's nothing there or here." She meant it too, Tommy was an alright guy and had his qualities, but she didn't want to go down that road again. "Do we tell Oliver?" Tommy's question had her annoyed even more. When she looked at him though, she saw why he was asking. "If you need forgiveness from him Tommy you go right ahead, I owe him nothing." She walked to her door and into the building, not letting him get in another word. Around the corner Oliver watched Tommy get in his car and drive away. He'd had Diggle bring him here early to speak to Laurel. He had spent the rest of his night mulling over her words and realized she had been right. It was only for him that reason and intent did not matter, for her it could offer closure. After what he witnessed though he knew he would be an unwelcomed guest adding undue stress. It could wait for now.

The following sunday, Laurel sat in her living room staring at the business's bank account in wonder. The full amount that she'd been swindled out of by Adam Hunt had appeared on the account. Laurel's steps quickened with anticipation as she neared the office, a secret joy bubbling within her, eager to share her triumph with Clara. But her pace faltered when Tommy emerged from his sleek car, intercepting her path with a troubled gaze.

"Laurel, do you have a moment?" he inquired, his voice betraying a hint of urgency. Laurel sighed inwardly, her enthusiasm dampening. "What is it, Tommy?" she asked, her tone polite yet distant, wary of the wealthy man's unpredictable moods. "I saw you last night, vanishing into the night with Oliver,"

Tommy remarked, a shadow crossing his features. Laurel's patience waned; she had no desire to navigate the maze of Tommy's doubts. "Tommy, whatever you think you saw, it's irrelevant," she asserted firmly, her words slicing through the morning air. "There's nothing between Oliver and me—past or present."

Tommy's eyes searched hers, a silent plea etched within. "Should we tell Oliver about it?" he ventured, his question laced with a deeper, unspoken need for absolution. Laurel's gaze hardened, her resolve crystallizing. "If you seek forgiveness, pursue it on your own terms. I am beholden to no one," she declared, her voice a definitive end to their exchange.

With a swish of her coat, she turned on her heel, leaving Tommy wordless as she disappeared into the sanctuary of her office. Unseen, around the corner, Oliver lingered in the shadows, his eyes trailing Tommy's retreat. He had arrived earlier than usual, hoping for a moment with Laurel, to bridge the gap her words had carved the night before. Yet, as he watched the scene unfold, Oliver recognized an unwelcome truth: his presence would only cast a pall over her day. With a heavy heart, he decided to step back, to give her the space she deserved. For now, at least. But the memory of loneliness was more solid than ever.

Adrift in solitude, Oliver clung to the raft, the relentless sun marking the days that stretched into an eternity. His water supply had vanished, surrendered to the unforgiving sea days ago, and with it, a piece of his resolve. Exhaustion crept into his bones, whispering tales of despair. The horizon had remained empty, devoid of the silhouettes of salvation he so desperately sought. Hope was a distant memory, fading with each passing moment—until the unexpected chorus of seabirds pierced the silence. Their lively calls cast fleeting shadows upon him, a dance of dark wings against the light. Lifting his weary eyes, Oliver traced their aerial ballet, and there, on the cusp of the azure expanse, an island beckoned.

Under a brooding sky, heavy with clouds that threatened rain, Moira Queen held the phone to her ear, her gaze fixed unblinkingly on the door opposite her. "Proceeding with another abduction now would be imprudent," the voice on the line cautioned, a static hiss beneath the words. "It risks casting an unwelcome spotlight upon your family." A silence hung in the air, as dense as the clouds outside. "We'll monitor him closely," Moira replied, her voice a detached murmur, "to see if he reveals any inkling of knowledge."

"Understood," came the response, clinical and cold. "The authorities remain in the dark about the identities of the abductors. There's nothing that ties us to the incident." "Good." The line went dead with a definitive click, severing the connection. Moira's fingers trembled slightly as she placed her phone into a small, nondescript box. She closed the lid with a soft thud, the sound muffled by the thick air, and slid the drawer shut, entombing it in darkness. She surveyed her home office, a sanctuary now tainted with secrets, and as the first drops of rain began to tap against the window, Moira surrendered to the weight of her actions, her head falling into her hands as sobs shook her frame.