# THE FOUNDRY - LATE NIGHT
The underground lair had settled into that peculiar brand of silence that came after a successful mission—not peaceful, not restful, but the quiet hum of machines, the faint oil-and-metal tang of cleaned weapons, and the sharp edge of adrenaline still bleeding out of the air. It was victory, sure, but victory wrapped in barbed wire and questions that cut deeper than arrows.
Oliver Queen sat halfway up the metal stairs, his posture taut even in supposed downtime. His hood was pulled back, revealing the sharp angles of his jaw and the perpetual tension that lived in the line of his shoulders. The green leather still clung to him like a second skin, sweat-darkened at the collar. His ice-blue eyes—the kind of cold that came from watching too many people die and making too many impossible choices—stared down at the concrete floor as if it might provide answers he couldn't dig up anywhere else.
Those eyes had seen five years of hell on an island that didn't exist on any map. They'd watched his father put a gun to his own head. They'd seen what men became when civilization stripped away, layer by bloody layer. And tonight, they'd watched a desperate father choose crime over charity, watched corporate assassins prepare to execute civilians, watched the weight of his family name crush another man under its legacy.
"You know," came a voice rich with that lazy kind of confidence that suggested he'd already out-thought everyone in the room twice before breakfast, "brooding in the dark is significantly less impressive when you do it with an audience. Especially an audience this attractive."
Harry Potter lounged against the railing above, Blood Raven armor catching the low light like liquid crimson and black. The suit was a work of art—sleek, deadly, with Crimson accents that caught the light just enough to remind anyone looking that this was a man who'd never learned to blend in. His hair, perpetually rebellious in that 'I-rolled-out-of-bed-and-still-look-like-a-god' way, framed green eyes that sparkled with mockery and something far more dangerous underneath. He had the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers or wanted posters—all sharp cheekbones and that infuriating smirk that suggested he knew exactly how good he looked and wasn't sorry about it.
He looked like elegant death dipped in British sarcasm, and he absolutely knew it.
Oliver didn't look up, his knuckles white where they gripped the metal railing. "I'm not brooding."
"Oh, right," Harry drawled, his accent turning the words into silk-wrapped razors. "Sitting in a dark lair, still in costume, jaw clenched so hard it could crack diamonds, staring at the floor like it personally betrayed you and ran off with your favorite quiver. Clearly just—what's the phrase?—thoughtfully contemplating tactical decisions. Totally different. My mistake entirely."
From the leather couch, Daphne Greengrass let out a soft, amused hum that somehow managed to sound both innocent and sinful. Her platinum-blonde hair gleamed like moonlight against her black tactical gear, and she was stretched across the cushions like the lair was her personal throne room. Every movement was deliberate, calculated—from the way she crossed her long legs to how she lazily twirled a throwing knife as if it were an extension of her perfectly manicured fingers.
She had the kind of beauty that stopped traffic and started wars. All elegant curves and dangerous edges, with ice-blue eyes that promised either salvation or damnation, depending on her mood. Tonight, sprawled across that couch in form-fitting black leather, she looked like temptation personified.
"He does have a point, Queen," she murmured, her tone silken, amused, and far too pleased with herself. The knife spun between her fingers with effortless precision. "This is prime brooding behavior. Almost textbook. Though I have to admit, you wear angst rather well. It brings out your cheekbones."
Susan Bones, red-haired and sharp-eyed, didn't even glance up from the pile of intelligence reports she was organizing on the coffee table. Her movements were meticulous, like she was rearranging her thoughts into neat little boxes she could ignore later. She had that girl-next-door beauty that could sneak up on you—freckles across her nose, warm amber-brown eyes, the kind of smile that made you forget she could probably kill you in seventeen different ways.
Tonight, her hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, strands escaping to frame her face. She wore tactical gear like it was a second skin, every piece of equipment exactly where it needed to be. Efficient, deadly, and somehow still managing to look like she should be studying for finals instead of planning the downfall of corporate conspiracies.
"Almost?" she said, finally looking up with a perfectly arched eyebrow. "He's been staring at the same square foot of concrete for—" she checked her watch with theatrical precision, "—twenty-four minutes. That's not contemplation, that's sulking with better lighting and a dramatic soundtrack."
Oliver sighed, the kind of sigh that said he hated being called out but hated admitting they were right even more. His shoulders dropped slightly, but the tension never fully left. It never did. "You people think everything is a joke."
"Not everything," Harry shot back, swinging one leg over the railing so he could lean forward with a smirk that was equal parts charm and challenge. The armor shifted with the movement, highlighting the lean muscle underneath. "Just most things. Especially when the alternative is sitting here like you, chewing on your guilt like it's your favorite midnight snack. Which, by the way, is a terrible diet. High in angst, low in protein, and it does absolutely nothing for your complexion."
Daphne chuckled, a sound like expensive champagne and dark promises. She flicked the knife up and caught it without even looking, her eyes never leaving Harry's face. "He's right, you know. Guilt isn't a good look on anyone. You've got the jawline for brooding, Oliver—don't get me wrong—but even your tragic hero routine has an expiration date."
"Funny," Oliver muttered, finally lifting his gaze to meet Harry's. Those blue eyes were sharp, cutting, the kind that had learned to see through lies because truth was a luxury he couldn't afford. "Last I checked, you weren't the one making life-and-death calls tonight."
Harry leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice softening but never losing its edge of sarcasm. The change in his posture was subtle but significant—less lounging predator, more concerned friend. Though the smirk never quite disappeared. "No, I wasn't. But I was standing next to you when you did. And here's the thing, mate—no matter how many times you replay it in your head, the call's still made. The arrow's already flown. So unless you've recently acquired a time machine hidden in one of those trick arrows, brooding about it isn't going to change a bloody thing."
Susan finally looked up properly, her amber-brown eyes sharp with something more complicated than amusement. There was warmth there, but also steel—the kind that came from watching people destroy themselves from the inside. "He's right. Again. And honestly, Oliver, if Harry's making more sense than you are, that's a sign you need to seriously reevaluate your life choices."
Harry grinned at that, bright and utterly delighted, tipping an imaginary hat in her direction. "Thank you, darling. Though I deeply resent the implication that my making sense is a rare occurrence. I'm constantly sensible. It's one of my most attractive qualities."
"You're wearing death armor and you call yourself 'Blood Raven,'" Susan said flatly, arching one perfect eyebrow. "You don't get to talk about sensible anything."
"Correction," Harry countered smoothly, his grin turning wicked as his eyes flicked between Susan and Daphne, "I get to talk about whatever I want, because I look this good doing it. And judging by how often you and our lovely ice queen over there keep staring at me when you think I'm not looking, I'd say you both agree wholeheartedly."
Daphne's knife froze mid-spin, her lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile that promised all sorts of interesting trouble. "Careful, Potter," she purred, uncrossing and recrossing her legs with deliberate slowness. "Flattery will get you everywhere. And I do mean everywhere."
"Oh, I know," Harry said, his voice dropping into that lower register that seemed to bypass rational thought entirely. His eyes lingered on her mouth before flicking to Susan, who was trying very hard to look unaffected and failing spectacularly. "I'm absolutely counting on it."
Susan rolled her eyes, but the flush creeping up her neck betrayed her completely. She tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear with studied casualness. "You're insufferable."
"And yet," Harry said, pushing off the railing with a lazy, feline grace that made every piece of armor look like liquid shadow, "you keep me around. Both of you. Curious, that."
He moved toward them with the kind of predatory elegance that belonged in nature documentaries about apex predators. Each step was measured, purposeful, like he was stalking prey that wanted to be caught.
Daphne's smile sharpened as she watched him approach, her knife spinning faster now. "Oh, we have our reasons, don't we, Susan?"
Susan's attempt at nonchalance crumbled as Harry's shadow fell across her papers. She looked up, meeting his gaze directly, and there was heat there—banked fire that threatened to burn everything in its path. "Reasons," she agreed, her voice slightly breathless despite her best efforts.
Oliver, watching this unfold with a mix of irritation, bemusement, and the bone-deep exhaustion of a man trying to save a city while his teammates flirted shamelessly, muttered under his breath, "Unbelievable."
Harry turned his head, still walking, and smirked at him with the kind of confidence that should have been illegal. "No, Oliver. Unforgettable. There's a difference, and it's significant."
—
The heavy metal door groaned open with the grinding sound of industrial hinges that had seen better decades. The echo bounced through the cavernous lair like the world itself was about to deliver bad news wrapped in bureaucratic red tape.
Diggle was first through, broad-shouldered and solid, somehow managing to make the industrial space feel too small for him. His presence wasn't loud—it was weight, command, the kind of steady gravity that kept volatile elements from flying apart. He moved with the controlled precision of a man who'd seen combat in three different countries and had learned that staying calm kept everyone breathing.
Behind him, Hermione swept in, still in mission attire, curls pulled back in a messy knot that looked too precise to be accidental. Her tactical vest was unstrapped but not removed, weapons still holstered—a woman who knew the night wasn't over just because they were back at base. Her sharp amber-brown eyes missed nothing as she beelined for her workstation, fingers already reaching for keyboards, her posture screaming crisis management mode.
She had that particular brand of beauty that came from brilliant minds and dangerous competence—all sharp features and sharper intellect, with the kind of focused intensity that made grown men step aside when she had work to do.
Neville followed, all six-foot-four of him, moving with that dangerous grace that came from a man who could break bones with his bare hands but also remembered to duck his head so he didn't clip the doorframe. His tactical gear strained across shoulders that looked like they'd been carved from granite, and there was mud on his boots, blood under his fingernails, and the satisfied expression of someone who'd recently made bad people regret their life choices.
He was built like a brick wall with anger management issues, but his eyes—dark, steady, surprisingly gentle—suggested depths that most people never bothered to look for.
Oliver snapped out of his silent brooding like a coiled spring, every line of his body going taut with barely contained urgency. "How's Derek?" His voice was low, urgent, almost demanding—because good news was oxygen right now, and he desperately needed to breathe.
"Stable," Diggle reported, calm and professional, though there was relief in his voice if you knew where to listen for it. He set down his equipment with military precision, each piece finding its designated spot. "Surgery went better than expected. Bullet missed anything vital, though he lost more blood than I'd like. Doctors say he'll recover fully. Won't be sprinting any marathons in the next few weeks, but he's alive and talking."
Oliver exhaled slowly, shoulders lowering just a fraction. The death grip on his bow finally loosened. "And Kyle? Janice? Teddy?"
"In federal custody," Hermione replied crisply, her fingers already dancing across the keyboard as if they'd been waiting all night for something to dissect. "And very cooperative. Surprisingly so. Kyle's talking so fast the FBI agents are getting writer's cramp—names, networks, distribution channels, financial records. It's bigger than we thought."
"How big?" Oliver pressed, because in his experience, things were never as bad as you feared—they were always worse.
Neville dropped heavily into a chair, the poor thing creaking in protest under his considerable bulk. He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, his voice carrying the grim certainty of someone who'd seen too much of the world's ugliness. "They're terrified, Oliver. Whatever they were mixed up in, it's not just petty theft or even organized crime. They knew they were pawns in something bigger, and now they're scared shitless of whoever's been moving the pieces on the board."
Oliver's jaw tightened, that familiar tension creeping back into his shoulders. "How deep does it go?"
Hermione's eyes flicked to her screen, the glow casting sharp planes of determination across her face. Her expression was pure focus, the kind that meant she was three steps ahead of everyone else and rapidly calculating outcomes. "International arms dealing, but not the usual suspects. The materials weren't sold at random—they were custom-ordered. Armor-piercing munitions, chemical compounds with clear weaponization potential, military-grade explosives. Buyers with serious resources, government contacts, and very deliberate intent."
Susan, who had been half-buried in intelligence files a moment ago, froze. Her delicate features hardened, freckles standing out sharper under the weight of disgust and growing anger. "That's not theft," she said, her voice tight with controlled fury. "That's not even crime. That's treason."
"Precisely," Harry murmured, stepping down from the railing with the kind of predatory elegance that made it impossible not to watch him move. His tone, though quiet, cut through the air like a blade. "Which means someone in Queen Consolidated's ivory tower has been playing middleman for mass murder. And not the 'oops, didn't notice what was happening' kind of corruption. The cold, calculated, let's-help-kill-people-for-money kind."
Oliver's hands clenched into fists, knuckles white with the effort of not putting them through something solid. His father's name, his family's company, the weight of a legacy built on good intentions and corrupted by greed—it all pressed down on him like chains. "My father didn't build Queen Consolidated for this."
"No," Harry said softly, green eyes flashing with both sympathy and razor-sharp mockery. He moved closer, armor gleaming, voice dropping into that register that somehow managed to be both gentle and cutting. "Your father built a beautiful, shiny machine designed to help people and make the world a better place. It's not your fault—or his—that someone figured out how to use those same gears to grind innocent people into paste. But you are responsible for cleaning up the mess. Lucky you."
Before Oliver could respond—likely with something self-flagellating and unhelpful—Diggle's voice broke in with a darker edge that made everyone in the room straighten. "There's more."
Oliver looked up sharply, those blue eyes going hard. "Go on."
"The private military contractors at the bank?" Diggle's jaw tightened, and there was something in his expression that spoke of old angers and fresh disgust. "They weren't there to stop the Royal Flush Gang. They were there to wipe them out. Permanently."
The silence that followed was suffocating, heavy with implications that made everyone's weapons feel inadequate.
"Eliminate how?" Oliver asked, though the answer was already a cold weight in his gut.
"Shoot to kill," Diggle said flatly, his soldier's bluntness cutting through any comfortable illusions. "Stage it as justified force. Make them look like dangerous criminals who fought back and gave them no choice. No witnesses, no loose ends, no inconvenient testimonies. Just another night in Starling City's endless crime blotter, and Derek Reston's family gets to bury him as a bank robber instead of a whistleblower."
Harry laughed. It was soft, dangerous, and absolutely lethal—the kind of sound that made smart people check their exits. "Well. That certainly adds some moral clarity to the evening, doesn't it? We didn't just stop a robbery—we crashed a corporate-sponsored execution. Shame there aren't medals for that sort of thing. I'd look absolutely brilliant with more medals."
Daphne, still stretched across the couch like a spoiled cat with better weapons and fewer morals, tilted her head so her platinum hair caught the light. Her lips curved in a predatory smile that promised violence wrapped in silk. "I'd say you already look brilliant, Potter. Medals would just be showing off at this point."
Susan shot her a side-eye that was equal parts exasperation and heat, but there was no mistaking the way her gaze lingered on Harry's armor-clad form. "Showing off is his default setting. We don't need to encourage him any more than he already encourages himself."
"Oh, but you like me showing off," Harry fired back smoothly, moving to lean against the back of the couch now, looming over both women with that unfair combination of menace and charm. His eyes flicked between them with wicked intent. "Don't bother denying it. I've seen the way both of you stare when I'm saving the day in all this armor. Very flattering. Very distracting. Very mutual."
Daphne's smile sharpened to something that could cut glass, and her knife began twirling between her fingers with sinful ease. "Careful, Raven," she purred, her voice like expensive whiskey and dangerous promises. "Keep talking like that and you'll find out exactly how much we like watching you work."
Susan's cheeks flushed, but her eyes never wavered from Harry's face. "And exactly how much trouble you can handle."
"Ladies," Harry said, leaning down just enough that his voice was a whisper they could both hear, his grin wicked and utterly unrepentant, "I can handle anything you care to throw at me. The real question is whether you can handle what I throw back."
Oliver groaned softly, dragging a hand over his face with the long-suffering patience of a man watching his carefully organized world descend into chaos. "You three are absolutely unbelievable."
"Unforgettable," Harry corrected instantly, flashing that grin at him with shameless confidence. "The word you're looking for is 'unforgettable.' It's a common mistake."
Hermione, without looking up from her screen where she was rapidly cross-referencing databases, muttered, "Some of us are trying to save the world here, not audition for the world's most inappropriate soap opera."
"Please," Susan said dryly, folding her arms as she leaned back against the couch cushions, her movement bringing her shoulder against Harry's arm. "If this was a soap opera, Harry would've already kissed both of us, Daphne would've stabbed someone for dramatic effect, and Oliver would've brooded shirtless in the rain."
Oliver shot her a look that was equal parts exasperation and reluctant amusement. "I don't brood in the rain."
"You absolutely brood in the rain," Harry said, reaching down to pat Oliver's shoulder with mock sympathy. "It's practically your signature move. Cape, hood, rain, tragic jawline, meaningful stares into the distance. Very seasonal. Very marketable."
Oliver muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "I hate all of you," but the corner of his mouth betrayed the smallest, most reluctant twitch upward.
And still—beneath the banter and the tension and the dangerous chemistry crackling between his teammates—the weight of it all pressed in: Derek Reston, alive but fragile; corporate treason running through Queen Consolidated's veins like poison; a network of killers paid to tie up loose ends with bullets and staged crime scenes.
Daphne set her knife down with deliberate care, her icy blue eyes gleaming with the kind of intelligence that made enemies nervous. "Inside job. Has to be. Someone high enough in the company hierarchy to access contracts, financials, security protocols. Someone who knows exactly how to bury blood under paperwork and make murder look like quarterly reports."
"Board member," Neville added, his voice a low growl that suggested he was already planning what he'd do to whoever was responsible. "It's the only thing that fits the access patterns and authority levels."
Oliver absorbed the words like poison, slow and lethal, feeling them settle in his chest where his father's memory lived. "So what you're telling me is that tonight we didn't just stop a robbery. We stopped a corporate cover-up designed to erase witnesses to treason using company-funded assassination squads."
"That's exactly what we're telling you," Diggle said, his voice carrying the weight of a soldier's absolute certainty. "And Derek Reston? The man you tried to give a second chance to tonight? The man you offered redemption to? He may be the only person alive who can help us unravel the entire network before more people disappear."
Harry leaned against the back of the couch now, one hand resting near Daphne's shoulder, the other almost brushing Susan's hair. His presence was magnetic, dangerous, impossible to ignore. "Well then," he said, his smirk curling like smoke, eyes gleaming with anticipation. "Looks like we've got ourselves a proper conspiracy. Corporate treason, international arms dealers, assassination squads, a man clinging to life with crucial information, and—" his gaze flicked knowingly between the two women before landing on Oliver "—a broody billionaire vigilante who desperately needs to learn that saving people sometimes requires getting your hands dirty. Honestly, I can't think of anything more fun."
—
"This isn't on you," Diggle said finally, his voice carrying that particular mix of authority and patience he'd honed over years of watching Oliver self-flagellate over decisions that had already saved lives. He moved to stand beside Oliver's chair, solid and reassuring. "You couldn't have known that offering Derek redemption would put a corporate target on his back. You made the right call with the information you had."
"Did I?" Oliver asked, his voice flat, bitter, carrying the weight of five years spent learning that good intentions paved roads straight to hell. His knuckles were white where they gripped the metal railing. "I walked into that bar tonight trying to—what? Salve my own conscience? Pretend I could balance out years of corporate destruction with a job offer and a benefits package? And when he refused, when he chose desperation over charity, I hunted him down with a bow like he was just another name on my father's list."
"Correction," Harry cut in smoothly from where he now stood between the couch and the railing, his armor catching the light as he gestured. His voice carried that warmth mixed with a razor blade of British sass that somehow managed to be both comforting and cutting. "You stopped a man from robbing a bank at gunpoint. You prevented innocent civilians from having military-grade weapons waved in their faces by people desperate enough to use them. You may call it hunting, Oliver—but I call it preventing bloody carnage."
His green eyes were serious now, the mockery stripped away to reveal something fierce underneath. "The fact that you offered him a way out first? The fact that you gave him a choice when you could have just put an arrow through his chest from the start? That makes you better than ninety percent of the people in this city who claim to care about justice."
"Harry's right," Susan said gently, sitting forward on the couch so she could meet Oliver's gaze directly. Her freckles seemed to soften in the low light, her voice carrying that perfect blend of logic and compassion that made her so effective at talking people down from ledges. "You gave Derek every opportunity to walk away. You offered him legitimate work, real money, a chance to provide for his family without breaking the law. He didn't take it. That doesn't make you a monster—it makes you someone who understands that choices have consequences."
Oliver let out a rough exhale, shaking his head with the kind of self-recrimination that was becoming his signature. "It feels like I wanted the excuse. Like I was waiting for him to say no, so I could justify the violence I was already itching to unleash. Like I needed him to be a villain so I could feel righteous about putting arrows in him."
Daphne, who'd been sprawled on the couch like she owned not just the furniture but the entire underground lair, finally set down her throwing knife with a soft click against the coffee table. Her platinum hair spilled over her shoulder as she turned to look at him directly, her expression a mix of amusement and exasperation.
"Oliver," she said, her voice carrying that particular brand of cutting honesty that came from someone who'd never learned to cushion hard truths, "you need to stop fetishizing guilt like it's a hobby. It's not attractive. Brooding, sure—that works with your bone structure and your tragic backstory—but guilt?" She tilted her head, ice-blue eyes glittering. "Guilt is heavy. Boring. Completely counterproductive. And frankly beneath someone with your resources and skill set."
Hermione looked up from her monitor, curls escaping their messy bun, her voice precise and cutting through Oliver's self-doubt like a scalpel. "Derek Reston and his family would be dead right now if you hadn't intervened. Corporate assassins would've painted the whole scene as a felony gone wrong, another tragedy in Starling City's crime statistics. You didn't just stop a robbery tonight, Oliver. You prevented a massacre disguised as justice."
Harry's eyes, sharp green and utterly uncompromising, found Oliver's across the space between them. "So unless you've got a bloody time machine hidden in one of those trick arrows—which, knowing you, you probably do—might I suggest we move past the moral self-flagellation stage of tonight's program and onto the 'figure out which corporate bastard needs a very public and very painful reckoning' stage? Because personally, I find revenge far more productive than guilt."
Neville chuckled from his chair, the sound rumbling up from somewhere deep in his chest. His massive frame was slouched with deceptive ease, like a mountain that had decided to take a brief rest. "I vote for Harry's plan. Much more satisfying."
Oliver almost—almost—smiled at that, but his gaze dropped again, that familiar weight settling back across his shoulders. His voice was quieter now, haunted by memories of arrows that had found their mark and the faces of men who'd deserved better deaths. "The line between justice and revenge—it gets blurrier every time I put this hood on. Every time I draw this bow. I don't know if I trust myself to tell the difference anymore."
"Then trust us," Harry said immediately, no hesitation, stepping closer with that confidence that seemed to radiate from him like heat. His armor gleamed as he moved, every line of him screaming dangerous competence. "That's what a team is for, mate. We catch each other when we fall into our own blind spots. You start spiraling into guilt? We call you on it. You cross a line you shouldn't cross? We drag you back, kicking and screaming if necessary. And if you ever lose yourself entirely…"
His smirk returned, sharp and dazzling. "Well. I promise I'd look absolutely magnificent in green leather."
That earned a genuine laugh from Susan, despite the serious turn of conversation. "God, you're impossible."
"Darling," Harry said smoothly, leaning down just enough that she had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes, his voice dropping into that lower register that seemed to bypass rational thought entirely, "you say that like it's a character flaw instead of my most charming quality."
Daphne's smirk sharpened as her eyes flicked between Harry and Susan, watching the heat building between them with obvious interest. "Careful, Bones," she purred, her own voice carrying dangerous promise. "If you keep looking at him like that, I might have to start staking territorial claims."
Susan's cheeks flushed, but she didn't look away from Harry's face. If anything, her gaze intensified, and there was something almost challenging in her expression now. "You'd have to get in line first, Greengrass. And you'd have to beat me to him."
"Ladies, please," Harry said, utterly delighted by the direction this conversation had taken. He shifted his position so he was leaning against the couch now, one arm braced behind Daphne while his other hand came to rest on the armrest near Susan's elbow. His grin was wicked, his voice pure velvet seduction. "There's plenty of me to go around. No need to fight over the merchandise."
"Who says we'd be fighting?" Daphne asked, her knife starting to spin between her fingers again, but slower now, more deliberate. "Maybe we'd be collaborating."
Susan's breath caught audibly, and the flush in her cheeks deepened. "That's... not the worst idea anyone's had tonight."
Harry's grin widened to something that should have come with a warning label. "Now that," he murmured, "is the kind of tactical thinking I can get behind. Among other things."
Oliver groaned audibly and rubbed his forehead with both hands. "I cannot believe this is my life. I cannot believe these are the people I'm trusting to help me save the city."
"Hey," Harry said, mock-offended, though his hands didn't move from their very deliberate positions near both women. "We're extremely competent. We just happen to also be devastatingly attractive and completely shameless about it."
Diggle, deadpan as only he could be, muttered, "At this point I'd settle for five minutes of quiet and professional discussion."
Hermione rolled her eyes without looking away from her screen. "Some of us are trying to actually save the world here, not turn the Foundry into the set of a very expensive, very inappropriate romantic thriller."
"Give it time, Granger," Neville said with a grin that made his scarred face almost boyish. "With these three, it'll be both soon enough."
But then Diggle moved closer to Oliver, his expression growing serious again, his voice dropping into that tone that carried the full weight of his military experience and unshakeable moral compass. "Oliver. Let me ask you something, and I want you to really think about the answer."
Oliver looked up, blue eyes narrowing slightly at the sudden gravity in his friend's voice. "What?"
"If Robert Queen was here tonight—if he could see what you did, the choices you made, the lives you saved—would he be ashamed of you?" Diggle's voice was steady, unflinching, carrying the kind of truth that couldn't be argued with. "Really think about it."
Oliver's head snapped up, those ice-blue eyes going wide with something that might have been surprise or pain or hope. "What are you talking about?"
"Think about it," Diggle pressed gently but relentlessly. "You saved innocent lives tonight. You exposed corporate corruption that was getting people killed. You stopped trained assassins from murdering a family in cold blood and making it look like justice. You gave a desperate man every chance to choose a better path, and when he didn't, you still found a way to save him from the consequences."
He leaned forward, his voice growing more intense. "Would your father—the man who built Queen Consolidated to help people, who put your name on that list because he believed you could be better than he was—would that man call what you did tonight a failure? Or would he call it exactly what you've always been trying to do: protect this city and the people in it?"
Oliver was quiet for a long time, so long that the only sounds in the Foundry were the hum of machinery and the soft click of Daphne's knife spinning. The silence stretched, but no one interrupted—it was the kind of silence that mattered, the kind that came before important realizations.
Finally, Oliver's shoulders eased just slightly, and when he spoke, his voice was softer, carrying the echo of memories that hurt less than they used to. "He'd probably say the same thing he said to me once, when I came home with bloody knuckles from fighting Tommy Wilkins for picking on kids smaller than him. That sometimes doing the right thing means accepting consequences that aren't fair, or clean, or simple."
"And?" Diggle prompted, sensing they were getting somewhere important.
"And that the people who need protection don't care if their protector has perfectly clean hands," Oliver continued, his father's words coming back with painful clarity. "They just care that someone's standing between them and the darkness when the sun comes up."
"Exactly," Diggle said with quiet pride, clapping Oliver's shoulder with gentle force.
Hermione looked up from her screens, nodding firmly. "So maybe the question isn't whether you're morally perfect, Oliver. Maybe it's whether you're effective. Whether the world is safer because you put on that hood."
Susan leaned forward again, her voice warm with conviction. "And you are. Effective, I mean. Stan Washington came out of his coma this afternoon. Full recovery expected. His wife told the doctors he's already talking about going back to work, helping to rebuild the part of the city that got damaged in the Undertaking."
Oliver blinked, something tight in his chest loosening for the first time all night. "He's... he's really okay?"
"Better than okay," Susan confirmed, smiling with genuine warmth. "Which means something you did—something we all did—actually mattered. Made a difference that will ripple out in ways we'll probably never know."
Neville grinned, his scarred face transforming with genuine joy as he reached over to clap Oliver's shoulder with enough force to rattle his bones. "See? Messy or not, complicated or not, it works. You work."
Daphne leaned back, crossing her legs with queenly poise, her eyes glittering. "Oliver, real heroes don't have clean hands. They make impossible choices with incomplete information, and they live with it. That's what separates us from the people we fight. We carry the weight, even when it hurts."
Harry leaned down between the two women now, his grin softening into something almost intimate. His voice was low, steady, cutting through Oliver's guilt with lethal precision. "The truth is, mate, you don't get to decide if you're worthy of this fight. The city already decided. Every life we save, every villain we stop, every kid who wakes up tomorrow because you wore that hood… That's the only judgment that matters."
Oliver finally looked up at him, and for the first time that night, there was something like gratitude in his eyes.
"You really are insufferable," he muttered.
Harry smirked. "And yet—completely indispensable."
Susan shook her head, smiling despite herself. "God help us all."
Daphne's laugh was low and sultry. "Oh, darling. He doesn't do help."
—
The Foundry hummed with low machinery and tired silence. Weapons gleamed on their racks, the tang of gun oil still clung to the air, and half-drained coffee cups marked where exhaustion had begun winning its war against adrenaline.
Oliver stood at the command console, still in his Arrow suit, hood pushed back, sweat drying against the stubble on his jaw. His pale blue eyes were locked on the glowing screens, but his expression carried the same burden it always did after missions that blurred the line between victory and failure.
"So," Oliver finally asked, his gravelly voice cutting through the hum, "what do we do next?"
Harry was perched on the metal railing, armor catching the low light like a predator at rest. He didn't look tired—Harry Potter never seemed to look tired, just restless, like he was one sarcastic comment away from starting trouble on purpose. He arched a brow, green eyes sparking.
"Next?" he repeated, like Oliver had asked the most obvious question in the world. "We use Derek's little treasure map to find every corporate rat who's been nibbling on Queen Consolidated's stolen cheese. Then we show them what happens when the cat's not only out of the bag, but armed, armored, and really bloody impatient."
Daphne stretched out across the couch like she owned the place, platinum hair spilling over her tactical vest. She twirled a throwing knife lazily between her fingers, her lips curving. "Careful, Potter," she purred. "You're starting to sound almost as terrifying as you look in that armor."
Harry tilted his head toward her, smirk sharp enough to cut steel. "Almost? Darling, if I'm only almost terrifying, I clearly need to try harder."
Susan, cross-legged beside Daphne with a stack of intel files, rolled her eyes but didn't hide her smile. "Translation: Harry's been dying for an excuse to traumatize white-collar criminals all night. This is Christmas morning for him."
"Oi," Harry shot back, leaning closer, his voice all mock offense and smooth charm. "Don't ruin my brand, Bones. If they realize I'm actually helping people, my reputation as 'elegant death made flesh' goes right out the window."
Daphne leaned in just far enough that the heat between them was deliberate. "Oh, I don't know. I think you'd look rather good with your brand ruined. Vulnerable. Human. Tempting."
Susan snorted. "You'd think 'human' is his kink, the way you're looking at him."
Harry grinned wolfishly, not bothering to deny it. "Well, you know me. Equal opportunity offender." His gaze flicked between both women, lingering just long enough to make his meaning obvious.
Diggle, standing off to the side with arms crossed, finally cut in with his veteran's patience. "Focus. We've got a conspiracy that goes higher than one desperate guy with stolen tech. Somebody hired private military contractors to execute U.S. citizens on U.S. soil. That doesn't get swept under a rug."
"Preferably we handle it legally," Oliver said, though the slight twist of his mouth betrayed how much he believed that.
Susan's tone was pure dry amusement. "Preferably?"
"Not necessarily," Oliver clarified, in the kind of flat tone that made everyone in the room understand he meant it.
Hermione looked up from her tablet, where she'd already been cross-referencing Derek's files with public databases. Her amber eyes blazed with controlled intellect. "The sooner we identify the buyers and the chain of command, the sooner we can dismantle it. The rest is logistics."
"Listen to her," Neville said from the corner, arms folded across his massive chest. His voice carried blunt honesty, no theatrics. "She's right. And Oliver—maybe that list your father gave you? Maybe it wasn't about guilt at all."
Oliver looked up, visibly unsettled. "What do you mean?"
"Maybe Robert Queen wasn't asking you to fix his mistakes," Neville continued, voice steady, gaze unflinching. "Maybe he wanted you to understand some fights can't be won in boardrooms. That sometimes, the system itself is the problem. And sometimes it takes people like us—people outside the lines—to do what has to be done."
Harry snapped his fingers and pointed at Neville. "Finally. Someone who gets the bloody point without requiring a Shakespearean monologue."
Daphne smirked. "Jealous, Potter?"
"Of his biceps? Constantly," Harry shot back, flashing Neville a grin. "Of his insight? Absolutely not. I trained him well."
Susan reached over, tugged Harry's arm down until his hand brushed her thigh, then gave him a look that was all fire and challenge. "Don't get cocky. You're tolerable at best."
Harry leaned in, murmuring just loud enough for Daphne and Susan both to hear. "Funny. You didn't sound 'tolerant' the last time you had your hands in my hair."
Daphne's laugh was low and wicked, Susan's cheeks flushed though her smirk stayed sharp, and Hermione muttered something under her breath about "unprofessional levels of distraction."
Oliver, watching all of this with the eternal exhaustion of a man trying to herd cats, finally sighed. "This is my team," he muttered, almost to himself.
Diggle clapped him on the shoulder with quiet humor. "Family. You mean 'family.'"
Oliver didn't argue. For once, the weight on his shoulders didn't feel quite so heavy.
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