"Stay down and don't move!" Laurel whispered urgently.
Thea had just been silently cursing Star City for having zero decent heroes when her friend—armed with nothing but courage and optimism—stood up.
"Stop right there!" Laurel shouted.
For one brief, blinding moment, every head in the bar turned toward her.
Thea nearly fainted.
Of course. Of course Laurel would do something like this. Here Thea was, quietly evaluating the situation like a rational human being—and Laurel just had to leap into the spotlight, blazing with righteous fury.
So this is what real "heroic spirit" looks like, Thea thought bleakly. No wonder villains always outsmart the heroes—half the time, it's because of impulsive idiots like you!
Laurel's father had taught her a few self-defense moves at best. Against three armed gangsters? She was walking into a death trap.
But Thea couldn't let her get hurt. Friend or not, she had power—and that meant responsibility.
Apparently, tonight she was the one stuck playing the leading man.
Grimacing, Thea gripped the fork in her hand and prepared to strike first, planning to take out the bearded ringleader before he could pull the trigger.
The man spotted Laurel and froze for a moment. Then his greasy lips twisted into a leer.
"Well, well, sweetheart. You talkin' to me?" He turned to his cronies, laughing crudely. "Say it louder, baby, I can't hear you!"
He punctuated his taunt with a few obscene hip thrusts, sending his men into fits of laughter.
You disgusting pig.
Thea's gaze shifted from his eyes to his mouth, mentally marking the spot. One flick of this fork, and I'll teach you how to swallow your own teeth.
Laurel, meanwhile, was trembling. She wasn't yet the Black Canary—just a newly minted lawyer with more idealism than sense. Her legs shook, but she refused to back down.
That defiance only enraged the gangster further. Scowling, he raised his gun and aimed straight at her.
Now.
Thea's wrist twitched. The fork left her fingers—then stopped midair as her psychic senses caught something strange. She yanked her power back just in time.
A whistling sound cut through the chaos.
Thunk!
A black-feathered arrow struck the thug squarely in the shoulder. His shot went wild, bullets spraying harmlessly into the ceiling.
An arrow?
Thea blinked. Who else in Star City still used a bow besides her?
She snapped her head toward the source—and nearly bit her tongue in shock.
A figure stood balanced on the wall outside the bar, cloaked in black from head to toe, face hidden beneath a dark hood. In his hands was a weapon she recognized instantly: a sleek, black recurve bow identical to Malcolm Merlyn's.
Dad?
No… not quite. The outfit was close, but not the same—the cut, the leather pattern, the posture.
The hooded archer froze when their eyes met. Then, clearly panicked, he shouted, "Run!"
The wounded gangster roared in pain. "Shoot him! Kill that bastard!"
His men swung their rifles up and opened fire.
Bullets tore through the air, and to Thea's horror, one found its mark. The archer jerked violently, then toppled backward off the wall, crashing to the ground.
Definitely not Dad.
Malcolm would've dodged that with his eyes closed.
But whoever it was, they were going to die if she didn't act.
Thea snapped her wrist. The fork spun across the room and smashed into the chandelier above, plunging the bar into semi-darkness.
Guns were dangerous—not because she couldn't use them, but because they left evidence. Gunpowder residue, ballistic trails, powder burns… Forks were much more discreet.
Amid the confusion, she grabbed Laurel—who was still frozen mid-heroic pose—and dragged her toward the exit.
Once they reached a side alley, Thea scanned the walls for cameras. None. Perfect.
She split her magic, creating a shadow duplicate cloaked in dark mist. The clone dashed toward where the fallen archer lay while the real Thea kept Laurel out of sight.
The double reached the crumpled figure and lifted the hood.
A stunned laugh escaped her lips.
"Tommy?"
Of course it was. Her dear, lovesick brother.
So this is where you've been hiding…
He'd clearly picked up some of Malcolm's training—at least enough to look the part. The imitation leather suit, the custom bow… He wasn't a full-fledged assassin, but close enough to cosplay as one.
And apparently, tonight's dramatic entrance had been for Laurel's sake. Typical. The idiot had probably been tailing her for weeks, waiting for the perfect chance to play hero.
And look how that turned out.
The wound wasn't fatal but serious—gunshot to the abdomen, bleeding heavily. Without medical care, he'd be dead within an hour.
The clone vanished, and Thea herself carried him to her secret hideout. Thankfully, Felicity was still out of town—fewer awkward questions to answer.
What followed was practically routine for her now: disinfect, anesthetize, extract the bullet, stitch the wound. One seamless operation.
She glanced at his pale face, sighing. You've been training for what, a few months? And already jumping in front of guns? Idiot hero complex runs in the family, huh.
If she hadn't been there tonight, he'd have been just another nameless casualty on tomorrow's newsfeed. Malcolm would've lost his mind.
Once the sutures were done, she pulled his shirt back down.
To be fair, he had improved—less baby fat, more muscle definition. Nowhere near Oliver's level (who could do salmon ladders before breakfast), but at least Tommy finally looked like a man instead of a spoiled heir.
Tommy stirred weakly. His eyelids fluttered open. "Who… are you?"
He reached for her arm on instinct.
Thea easily dodged—she could've broken his wrist in a blink—but she didn't want to aggravate the wound.
Who was she supposed to be right now, anyway? Thinking quickly, she decided to keep her identity hidden.
She mumbled a few nonsense phrases in Chinese, lowering her voice.
To Tommy's ears, still half-delirious, it sounded like:
"%2&m#&…—"
"What the hell…?" he muttered, confused.
He tried to ask again, but they just ended up babbling past each other like two people from different planets. After a few minutes of incoherent mumbling, his strength finally gave out and he passed out cold.
Thea wiped imaginary sweat from her forehead. Lying is exhausting.
She picked up his bow and examined it—same design as Malcolm's, but lighter draw weight. Daddy's boy, she thought.
(Conveniently forgetting that she herself had once stabbed her father in the waist.)
Curious, she used her spirit sense to probe his bloodline. The connection was faint—just enough to confirm they were related, but nothing like the fiery resonance she'd felt when her own Merlyn blood had awakened.
Apparently, the family's ancient power wasn't something everyone could inherit.
She couldn't decide if that made her relieved or disappointed.
Either way, as the last living bearer of Merlin's bloodline, Thea felt the weight of that legacy settle heavier on her shoulders.
Protecting her father and brother wasn't just duty anymore.
It was destiny.