Harry Potter: Blood Raven

A soft pop cracked the silence like the cork of a bottle too long waiting to be opened.

Everyone in the room turned.

Except Harry.

He stood still, his armor syncing with his body in slow pulses—like breath, like heartbeat, like prophecy settling into flesh. The suit clung to him in smooth plates of red and black, shimmering as the nanoweave merged with his skin. Magic and technology breathing as one. Divine. Dangerous. Familiar.

At the edge of the room stood a House-Elf, small and bright-eyed, ears twitching like antennae on high alert. He wore a miniature double-breasted vest stitched in gold thread and tiny mirror-polished boots that clinked when he shifted nervously.

"Begging pardon, Lady Fleur," the Elf piped, bowing so low his snub nose brushed the obsidian floor. "More guests have arrived. Miss Bones. The Weasley Twins. Misses Johnson, Spinnet, and Bell. Mister Jordan. Misses Weasley and Lovegood. Mister Thomas. Mister Finnegan. Miss Abbott. Miss Davis. Miss Parkinson. Miss Tonks. And… Minister Shacklebolt."

The names fell like thunder. Nostalgia laced with the unmistakable undercurrent of firepower.

Fleur, standing like a queen carved from moonlight, inclined her head. Not a single hair dared shift out of place.

"Merci, Cinder. Escort them to ze Sitting Room. Offer tea, coffee, pumpkin juice, butterbeer—and zat terrible red wine Dean likes but pretends not to, oui?"

"Yes, Lady Fleur!" Cinder beamed and vanished with a soft crack.

Before anyone else could speak, the silence was cut in half by a voice that oozed dry amusement and effortless command.

Harry.

The mask had slid back into the armor like smoke sucked into lungs. The hood fell, revealing hair like raven's silk, tousled just-so, and eyes—Merlin, those eyes—that burned an impossible emerald green, crackling faintly with leftover power, as if the veil between realities had gotten mildly annoyed at being interrupted by him.

"Daphne," he said, voice smooth and low and damn near indecent, "your gear's waitingl."

Daphne turned—and her smirk bloomed like sin.

"Oh," she breathed, eyes glinting with something dangerous. "Finally."

There it was.

The Skadi suit.

A weapon disguised as couture.

Sleek, bone-white armor glimmered in the overhead frostlight—like snowflakes carved from moonstone, every angle whispering the promise of violence done beautifully. Acromantula silk wove through it like veins, reinforced by thin scales of Chinese Fireball hide—impossibly light, impossibly deadly. Etched along the limbs and spine were icy-blue Norse runes, glowing faintly like the first breath of a blizzard.

The cowl was soft, pale, hooded—but the lining was inscribed with enchantments so precise that merely whispering her name while she wore it could summon frostbite.

Daphne walked toward it slowly, reverently, her fingers already tugging off her gloves.

"Gods, Fleur," she purred, glancing back over her shoulder, hips swaying just enough to make Harry blink like he'd been struck. "You made me battle lingerie. And I'm not mad about it."

Fleur raised a brow, lips curving in the kind of smile that made grown Aurors stammer. "It is lingerie. For ze battlefield. You are to be sexy et terrifying, non?"

Harry chuckled under his breath, arms crossed over his chest, posture loose and lethal.

"If she gets any sexier, we'll need to ward the walls for blood pressure spikes."

Daphne looked back at him with a slow, dangerous smile. "Funny. I was going to ask if you needed help adjusting your… suit."

Hermione made a strangled noise. "Merlin's sake. Can we not flirt while wearing weapons?"

"No," Harry and Daphne said in perfect unison.

Neville cracked a grin, leaning against the pillar with arms like tree trunks folded over his chest. "You two are insufferable. You know that, right?"

Harry didn't even look away from Daphne as he replied, "Only to people who lack aesthetic taste and adequate flirtation stamina."

Bill Weasley—still dressed like he'd stepped out of a damn myth, all red hair and scars and raw charisma—let out a low whistle. "Hell, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to make the armor blush, mate."

Harry glanced over at him and smirked. "If the armor blushes, it's probably the self-heating enchantments. Or Daphne looking at me like I'm dessert she hasn't quite decided whether to lick or bite."

Daphne shot him a wink. "Why not both?"

Hermione rolled her eyes so hard it was audible. "Is it physically painful for you to have a serious conversation without a double entendre?"

"Yes," Harry said cheerfully, already turning toward the corridor. "Daphne, gear up. You've got five."

"Give me ten," she said, already stripping off her jacket like she was preparing for war—or seduction. "Perfection takes time."

"You've got five," Harry tossed over his shoulder. "And if you're not armored by then, I'm coming back here and helping you into it myself."

She froze mid-motion, then gave him the smirk. The one that promised sin and suffering. "You just want an excuse to see me bend over."

"I don't need an excuse," he shot back. "You bend for me anyway."

Neville let out a low whistle.

Hermione groaned. "Oh my Godric, get a room."

"We had a room," Daphne said sweetly. "But Fleur would turn it into a tactical planning alcove because someone put exploding runes on the headboard."

Fleur swept past them like a goddess with purpose. "You would probably be still screaming incantations in your sleep. It would be a liability. Also, very awkward for ze house-elves."

Harry chuckled. "Not my fault I'm both magically gifted and gifted magically."

Bill winced. "You know, I liked it better when you were moody and brooding."

"And I liked it better when you weren't dating Fleur," Harry replied smoothly. "We all have regrets."

Daphne, now fully suited except for the hood, arched a brow at him, eyes glowing like ice lit from within.

"You sure you want me in this suit, Potter?"

He tilted his head, green eyes glinting. "I want you in everything. Including that."

"Say that again after I assassinate five Legati Noctis and steal their pension plans."

Harry took a step closer, his voice dipping low—private, velvet.

"Say that again after we survive this fight and I finally get to marry you in something white without bloodstains on it."

Daphne's eyes widened—just for a second. Then she smiled.

And this time, it wasn't the smile of the Huntress.

It was hers.

"I'll hold you to that, Potter."

The runes on the Skadi suit flared to life as she pulled the hood over her head. And just like that—Daphne Greengrass vanished.

Gone.

Replaced by something silent. Something cold.

Something coming for you.

Neville looked around as the rest of them began moving toward the war room, the sitting room beyond now humming with voices and laughter and the occasional crash of a Weasley twin prank detonating in someone's drink.

"So… this is happening, yeah?"

Hermione sighed. "We've got a room full of heroes, war criminals, and hormonal twentysomethings with PTSD and active wand licenses. Of course it's happening."

Fleur linked arms with Bill, stepping beside him like a queen taking her knight.

"Ze Blood Raven and ze Ice Huntress, together again," she spoke. "Ze world should run."

Harry smirked.

"No," he said. "The world should watch."

And then he pushed open the doors to the reunion that would decide the next war.

And somewhere, something trembled.

—

The Sitting Room breathed old magic — polished oak walls draped in heavy tapestries that caught the flicker of the firelight, whispering of battles won and losses endured. The air was thick with that curious blend of familiarity and charged expectancy, like a school reunion crossed with a war council.

Neville stood by the hearth, arms crossed over a broad chest that looked more soldier than scholar these days. His eyes scanned the room with the steady calm of a man who'd faced down monsters of all kinds — inside and out.

"So," Kingsley's deep voice cut through the hum like a well-thrown spell, "Neville, you dragged half of Hogwarts' alumni back from their peaceful adult lives for what exactly? Another of your infamous 'let's pretend we're still students' Defense sessions? Because last time George nearly burned a hole in my robes."

Neville smirked, almost boyish despite the years. "Come on, Kingsley, you love it. You just pretend you don't."

George, lounging nearby with Fred, raised an innocent eyebrow. "Not me. I'm way too cautious these days."

Fred grinned, elbowing him. "Sure, mate. Keep telling yourself that."

Susan Bones, sharp-eyed and no-nonsense as ever, stepped forward. "Enough japes. We got the message about something urgent. So what's the plan, Neville?"

Before he could answer, the heavy door creaked open, and the room shifted as one.

Hermione entered first, hood lowered, the intricate runes on her suit catching the light with a subtle shimmer. She carried the air of someone who had lived through hell and come back sharper, smarter, unbreakable. Her calm intelligence practically radiated from her every step.

Behind her, Harry appeared — no longer the gangly kid with the lightning scar, but a man carved from legend and sheer force of will. His armor was sleek, red and black, the emerald gleam in his eyes cutting through the room like a blade. His poised intensity, that perfect mix of charm and steel, was written across every line of his face.

And then, like a shadow slipping through the cracks of time, Daphne. Her Skadi suit was more than armor—it was a promise of frost and death, elegant and lethal in that bone-white glow. The hood was down, and there she was — her sharp, dangerous smile, every inch the huntress who could freeze a heart with a glance. Her eyes locked onto Harry's with a heat that belied the chill of her runes.

Ginny was the first to find her voice, fierce and fiery as always. "Harry? Hermione? Daphne? Is that really you?"

Harry's smirk deepened, one eyebrow arching with perfect British disdain. "In the flesh. Or the better-for-it cybernetic kind. Depends on the day."

Pansy's lips thinned into a tight line, eyes flickering between Daphne and Harry like she was watching a chess match she didn't want to lose. "You disappeared. We thought… well, that you were done with us."

Daphne's smile was a knife's edge, silky and sharp. "Oh, Pansy, you always did underestimate me. I've been busy... sorting out some loose ends. And no, it wasn't a holiday."

Tracey stepped closer, quieter but with steel in her voice. "We've missed you. All of you."

Lee Jordan, grinning like the years hadn't touched him at all, cracked, "So, Neville, you're not pulling us here for a tea party, right? Because I'm ready to punch some dark magic in the face."

Neville's steady gaze met theirs all. "This is no game. Darkness is stirring again — and if we don't band together now, there won't be a next time."

A low murmur spread — a mix of dread, determination, and reluctant hope.

Harry stepped forward, eyes gleaming with a mischievous spark. "Full disclosure — it was me who called this meeting. Surprise!"

Kingsley raised an eyebrow, lips twitching at the corner. "Potter, I didn't expect you to play the organizer. Should I be worried?"

Harry's grin was sharp, but there was something softer in his gaze as it slid toward Daphne. "You should always be worried around me. Keeps life interesting."

Daphne's voice dropped, a teasing lilt curling around her words. "And here I thought you'd stopped making trouble, Harry."

"Darling," he said, stepping just a breath closer, voice low enough for only her to hear, "I only start making trouble when you're around."

She shot him a glance, one eyebrow raised. "Careful, Potter. Flirting with the Huntress of Ice can get you frostbite in more ways than one."

Harry chuckled, emerald eyes sparkling. "I've survived dragons, dementors, and you, love. Frostbite is the least of my worries."

Hermione cleared her throat, ever the voice of reason. "Perhaps we should start before the banter turns into a full-blown duel. Neville, what exactly are we facing?"

Before Neville could answer, the door swung open again, and Bill Weasley entered—red-haired, broad-shouldered, and looking every inch the warrior Harry remembered, but with Henry Cavill's quiet strength and command.

"Looks like the reunion just got a bit more interesting," Bill said with a grin, nodding at the group.

"Brilliant," Harry muttered. "More people to argue with."

"Could be worse," Neville said dryly. "Could be Voldemort."

The room filled with a shared, grim understanding.

Harry's gaze flicked to Daphne again, the unspoken promise hanging heavy between them like winter's chill—and fire beneath the frost.

—

Harry stepped forward, the firelight rippling across his armor like a storm reflecting in polished steel. Red and gold gleamed with phoenix pride, and the hem of his cloak whispered across stone like a war hymn echoing through a tomb.

He didn't raise his voice.

He didn't need to.

The room—half battlefield veterans, half old classmates turned warriors—stilled like a held breath. Because when Harry James Potter—Blood Raven, Saint of No Second Chances, Patron Saint of Sarcasm and Spite—really began to speak, history tended to pay attention.

"I didn't drag you all here for a Hogwarts reunion," he said, voice velvet-edged steel. "This isn't about reminiscing, trading curse scars, or finally asking what happened that night Free convinced the Giant Squid to attend a rave."

Fred raised a hand. "Still one of the best parties I've ever thrown."

George sighed dramatically. "I still have glitter in places I won't speak of without a lawyer present."

"Focus, you beautiful goblins of chaos," Harry said dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "We've got a problem. The kind that makes the last war look like a Quidditch scrimmage and the Battle of Hogwarts like a mildly rowdy field trip."

The grin vanished. That smile—the one that used to be boyish and reckless—was replaced by something older, colder, forged in the fires of resurrection.

"A storm's coming. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Not the 'dark magic gives me the icks' variety. I'm talking ancient, catastrophic, prophesied-in-blood-on-the-walls kind of storm."

He touched his neck, and a shimmering veil of fire sparked into being over the central war table—arcane holography in cerulean and crimson, crackling with runes. A magical map floated, its fragments stitched together like torn parchment by spell-thread.

"Legati Noctis," he continued. "You know them. Draco Malfoy's and Theo Nott's little brainchild. Wannabe Death Eaters with better branding."

Hermione, arms folded, arched a brow. "Better hair, worse morals. They've been dancing the line between dark ideology and plausible deniability since they grew enough spine to say their names without flinching."

"Right," Harry nodded. "They just crossed that line."

With a flick of his fingers, the map shifted, sliding across the continent toward shadow-cloaked peaks.

"Transylvania," he said. "Home of brooding castles, bloodline supremacists, and people who treat sunlight like a personal insult."

Daphne, lounging against a pillar with the grace of a bored predator, spoke, her voice velvet dipped in frost. "The Vladovich Circle."

Harry grinned sidelong. "Ten points to the Ice Queen. That's them. The hidden Pureblood Houses that make the Sacred Twenty-Eight look like Hogwarts first-years playing wizard-Nazi dress-up. They've ruled that land in blood and secrecy since before Merlin hit puberty. And they speak Parseltongue."

Tracey choked on her drink. "Excuse me? There are no Parseltongue's alive except you. It is not possible."

"It is," Harry said, eyes gleaming. "When your great-great-grandfather mated with something that hatched."

Neville, massive and broad as a tree carved by battle, blinked. "So they're, what, basilisk-spawn?"

Bill's jaw clenched. "And what the bloody hell are they doing now?"

Another flick of Harry's hand. The projection shifted—jagged symbols lit up, pulsing with the sigil of a coiling ouroboros wrapped in the Deathly Hallows.

"Preparing a possession ritual," he said. "Designed to bring back Voldemort."

Silence.

Dead, brittle silence.

Then Lee muttered, "Isn't he deader than disco?"

Harry shrugged. "Yeah, well. So was I. Twice. Didn't stick. Apparently dying is just something we do for character development now."

Ginny leaned forward, her voice taut. "Who's the host?"

Harry's gaze slid to the projection. The image shifted.

She was seventeen, maybe eighteen. Raven-black hair in braids, skin like moonlight over frost. Her eyes were cold storm clouds, her collarbone inked with a fractured Black family crest. She stared out from the projection like a curse made flesh.

Susan whispered, "Who the hell is that?"

"Delphini Riddle," Harry said. "Daughter of Bellatrix. And Voldemort."

Chaos.

Tracey made a strangled sound, whispering, "It's impossible…"

Susan turned pale. "That's biologically—ethically—magically insane. Voldemort couldn't love. He couldn't even connect."

"Not love," Daphne said, voice a blade across glass. "Obsession. Legacy. Control."

Harry nodded. "Raised in the Carpathian strongholds by the Vladovich Circle. Trained like a cursed heirloom. She's powerful. Measured. And not the frothing lunatic her parents were."

Kingsley's voice rolled like thunder. "Is she leading them?"

"We don't know."

Harry's voice lowered, the war room leaning in closer.

"Some say she's a pawn. Some say she's the queen. And some say… she's both."

Daphne's gaze didn't leave the projection. "A willing vessel. With her own agenda."

"Exactly."

Harry stepped forward, shadow and firelight clinging to him like memory.

"She might want to bring him back just to destroy him. Or to take his power. Either way—she's coming to Britain. With an army behind her. And Malfoy's people opening the gates."

Neville muttered something vicious. Hermione swore under her breath. Fred and George? Stone-faced.

Daphne moved beside Harry, her steps echoing soft and sharp, wrapped in silk and storm. "So," she said, arching a brow, "we stop her?"

Harry turned, the look they shared enough to start a forest fire.

"Not yet. We find out first. Then we stop her… or save her."

Daphne's eyes glittered, amused and deadly. "Saving daughters of Death Eaters now, darling? Should I be worried?"

Harry leaned in, lips brushing her ear. "Only if she kisses better than you. And I doubt ice ever tasted this good."

She purred, "Flatter me again, and I might only freeze one of your kidneys tonight."

"Promises, promises."

Hermione made a strangled sound. "Merlin's beard, can you two not flirt mid-apocalypse?"

Bill chuckled. "Honestly, I missed this level of ridiculous."

"Let's just not let it be our last," Neville added darkly.

Harry turned, lifting his voice—not loud, but final.

"Gear up. Ward the perimeter. Find your allies. Watch your enemies. This war's not just coming."

He paused, green eyes glowing like cursed emeralds.

"This time… it's personal."

—

Harry exhaled slowly, like a man trying to breathe around prophecy. His hand flexed once, fingers twitching toward his wand, before he tucked it behind his back and turned to Kingsley, voice quiet but commanding, like a storm choosing restraint.

"Kingsley," he said. "I need eyes at every border. Discreet ones. The sort who won't flinch if the sky bleeds green or if the girl at the tavern turns out to be a basilisk in heels. You know the type. Loyal. Quiet. Preferably not one enchanted cousin away from selling us out to Malfoy for a favor and a fruit basket."

Kingsley, regal even in worn dragonhide, gave a solemn nod. His voice, deep and steady, rumbled like it had gravel for breakfast. "I have a few I trust. I'll keep it off the books. If anyone asks, it's a random audit of international floo logs and Portkey clearance slips."

Harry raised a brow. "And?"

Kingsley smirked, just a flicker. "And a coincidental audit of Apparition gates, broom traffic patterns, and an in-depth review of suspicious cauldron imports."

Harry grinned. "Now you're just sweet-talking me."

He turned to Lee Jordan, who was lounging like a man who lived in a permanent state of criminal flirtation.

"Lee," Harry drawled. "You still running that illegal pirate radio station from a locker room that smells like something died in it?"

Lee's grin was all teeth. "Rude. Accurate. But rude. And no, I've upgraded. Got a magically expanded chicken coop now. You haven't lived until you've broadcasted from inside a coop acoustically tuned by goblins."

"I need your network," Harry said. "Smugglers, curse-breakers, ex-Aurors, conspiracy theorists, ex-boyfriends of Divination professors. If anyone so much as sneezes dark magic, I want to know. Use code names. Use interpretive dance. Use bloody owl poetry if you have to."

"You had me at interpretive dance," Lee said, standing. "Let the chaos commence."

Then Harry turned. And froze.

Tonks leaned against the wall, bubbhlgum pink hair tousled like a storm in rebellion, black eyeliner smudged from either a nap or a duel, and her grin was caffeinated chaos.

"You still technically an Auror?" he asked.

Tonks rolled her eyes. "Depends. What's the definition this week? But yeah, badge still shines when I spit-polish it."

"I need your backchannels. The seedy stuff. Every dodgy tavern and black market alley from here to Siberia. If someone so much as smuggles in a suspicious trunk or a teenager with glowing eyes and daddy issues, I want to know."

"Sweet Merlin, Harry," Tonks grinned, pushing off the wall. "You really do know how to turn a girl on."

George raised a hand. "Still the best undercover assignment she ever pulled: Vampire strip club in Oslo."

Fred sighed wistfully. "She got four marriage proposals that night."

"I only got bit. Twice."

"Focus, you walking mistakes," Harry barked.

From the back of the room, a new voice chimed in, calm and dreamy, like moonlight was using someone's vocal cords.

"I'll ask the Nargles."

Everyone froze. Harry blinked. Hermione's quill paused mid-scribble. Daphne looked like she was about to cast a diagnostic charm on herself.

Neville, big as a bear and warm as a hearth, smiled fondly. He stood beside a girl with pale blonde hair that shimmered like mist and eyes like distant galaxies.

"Harry, meet Luna. She's been helping me map ley lines. Brilliant. Bit odd. Might be made of stardust."

Luna nodded serenely. "Also, the Wrackspurts. They're nesting in the skulls of certain conspirators. You can hear them if you hum in F sharp."

Harry blinked. "I—what?"

Hermione whispered, eyes wide, "Is she serious?"

Luna tilted her head. "Only during waxing gibbous."

Daphne leaned in to Harry, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Is she a hallucination or are we sharing the same fever dream?"

Harry tilted his head toward her, his voice low. "She's real. I think. Might be some sort of mythological test."

Luna held up a jar of moss. No one asked. She continued as if presenting a thesis. "I'll start in Wales. The stones there have been whispering warnings."

Daphne whispered, "This is going to end in blood and madness."

"Isn't it always?" Harry whispered back, smiling.

Tonks snorted. "Worse than when Hogwarts got infested with barbershop imp choirs during NEWTs."

"Don't remind me," Fred groaned. "I still twitch when I hear barbershop quartets."

Bill, standing tall and sharp in a tailored vest, arms folded like a lion about to roar, stepped forward.

"What's next, Harry?"

Harry turned to the table, to the mad, mismatched army he had somehow inherited. There were gods and fools here. Warriors and weirdos. Family.

He set his palm flat on the map.

"Now we wait. We watch. We prepare."

Hermione leaned in. "Secure communications, fallback points, asset rotation--"

Harry raised a brow. "Hermione, my dear, it's me. This isn't my first apocalypse."

He turned, eyes cutting to Daphne, who was watching him with a mixture of sharpness and heat that did unspeakable things to his resolve.

"And when she comes," Harry said, voice quieter now, the edges of steel wrapped in velvet, "when she lands on our soil, whether she's queen, pawn, or walking cataclysm—we don't flinch."

Daphne's smile was all teeth and invitation. "We meet her on our terms?"

He grinned back, slow and devastating. "Damn right we do."

"Gods, you're insufferably attractive when you monologue."

Harry leaned in close, his breath ghosting her jaw. "Careful, Greengrass. That sounded dangerously like foreplay."

She smirked. "You'd know if it was."

Fred fake-gagged. George mimed retching. Ginny rolled her eyes and muttered, "Get a room, or at least a soundproof charm."

Dean whispered, "This is going to end in tears."

Seamus grinned. "Yeah, but not ours."

And somewhere in the corner, Luna hummed softly. In F sharp.

—

Meanwhile, in Starling City…

The docks were a graveyard. Rusted cranes loomed like ancient sentinels, chains swinging in the fog, creaking out an eerie lullaby. The mist clung low, thick enough to choke on, blurring the border between shadows and solid ground.

From across the street, Oliver Queen crouched on a rooftop ledge, the green hood pulled low over his brow, raindrops clinging to the fabric like nervous sweat. The recurve bow in his hand was coiled tension, silent and sharp.

His phone vibrated once in his pocket.

Alexi: He's inside. Third floor. South stairwell access. Be careful, Queen. He doesn't miss.

Oliver's mouth tugged into a grim smile.

"Neither do I."

He holstered the phone and stood, one boot crunching lightly on gravel as he turned his gaze toward the looming corpse of a warehouse across the street.

Time to hunt.

—

The entry was silent. Swift. Calculated.

Arrow slipped through a busted metal panel at the rear like smoke through a crack. The warehouse's bowels were a relic of forgotten wars—steel girders scarred by fire, oil stains painting Rorschach blots into the concrete. It smelled like gunpowder, damp mold, and someone else's last breath.

He climbed the stairwell like a predator, each step a breathless whisper.

Third floor.

A sound—metal-on-metal. Rhythmic. Measured. chk-chk… chk-chk.

The unmistakable cadence of someone cleaning a weapon.

Then—

Click.

He dropped low on instinct.

PAK-CHANG!

A sniper round cracked over his head and detonated against a rusted beam with an echo like a lightning strike.

From the shadows, a voice purred with amused danger.

"Well, well. If it isn't Robin Hood."

Oliver tucked behind a column, eyes scanning. "Deadshot."

"Man, I was hoping for Batman. Or that Boy Wonder of his with the onesie," Floyd Lawton's voice drifted lazily. "Guess I'll take what I can get."

Oliver stepped from cover, bow drawn, an arrow kissed to the string.

Floyd stood ten yards away, leaning against a steel support beam like he was waiting for a bus. His eyepiece gleamed crimson, the wrist-mounted mag pistol in his hand still smoking. The rifle parts on the table behind him were laid out with surgical precision—each piece an instrument of death in progress.

"Didn't expect you to stick around," Oliver said coldly.

Floyd smirked. "Didn't expect you to find me so fast. I was in the middle of a build. You ever put together a .408 CheyTac in low light? Man, it's like solving a Rubik's Cube with murder."

"You're stalling."

"I'm monologuing, man. Let me have this. We don't get a lot of quality banter in this line of work."

"I'm not here to banter." Oliver stepped forward. "This ends tonight."

"Everything ends," Floyd replied with a one-shouldered shrug. "Some of us just like to get paid before it does."

"You're a contract killer. Your profession is murder."

"And yours is, what, public relations for corrupt and soulless billionaires?"

Oliver's fingers flexed around the bowstring. "I take lives for the good of others. To protect people."

"Please," Floyd scoffed. "You enjoy it. Whatever trauma you went to be this way didn't change you—it gave you permission. Just like the war did for me."

"I don't enjoy killing."

"That's why you suck at parties."

Floyd took a step forward, his targeting lens glowing.

"You want the truth, Arrow? You and me? We're the same coin. Just different flips. You've got rules. A code. Real cute. Me? I wake up, I choose violence, I get paid, and I don't lie to myself at night."

"You're not honest," Oliver said. "You're just empty."

Floyd's eyes darkened beneath the lens. "You'd be amazed what you can live with once you stop pretending it matters."

The silence snapped taut.

Deadshot's lens blinked once.

Oliver loosed his arrow.

Floyd dropped—bang!—blew the arrow out of the air mid-flight with a shot that rang like thunder. His second shot was already in motion before his feet hit the ground.

Oliver flipped sideways, the bullet slicing past his ribs. He landed, twisted, fired two arrows—one a flashbang, the other a smokehead.

The floor exploded into chaos.

Smoke thickened like tar. Gunfire barked through it—rapid, deliberate, efficient. Lawton moved like a shark in water, each step calm, each motion lethal.

Oliver slid behind a support column, reloaded in a blink, and fired blind. A scream of air and steel.

Floyd deflected the arrow with a sweep of his armored gauntlet, the blade hidden beneath it flicking out for a heartbeat.

"Try harder, Archer!" he called out with a grin. "This fog machine budget? Netflix level. I expected better from you."

Another burst of gunfire lit up the gloom, ricochets dancing like fireflies.

Oliver dove forward, rolled, loosed an arrow that drilled into Lawton's chest—

—but Floyd spun with the momentum, the arrow buried harmlessly in a kevlar plate with a cartoon unicorn painted over it.

"I have a kid," Floyd muttered, brushing it off. "Don't judge me."

Then—

Bang!

A concussion arrow hit the floor behind Deadshot, detonating in a burst of compressed force that shattered every window on the third floor.

The blast sent Floyd flying through a stack of crates, but when Oliver vaulted over to close the distance—

He was gone.

Only a swinging exit door remained.

Pinned into the frame was one of Oliver's own arrows. At the end of it?

A note, scrawled in a mocking hand:

"Next time, bring better bait. Or donuts. Either works."

Oliver stood in the silence, heart still thudding, smoke still hanging like ghosts around him. He didn't curse. He didn't blink.

Instead, he moved to the makeshift workbench. The rifle parts were gone. The ammo too. But the debris painted a story.

Spent casings. A cracked coffee mug with "#1 DAD" in faded print. A Polaroid photo half-burnt showing a little girl on a swing.

And—

A battered laptop. Two rounds dead center, straight through the hard drive.

Oliver scooped it up, turned, and melted into the shadows.

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Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!

I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!

If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!

Click the link below to join the conversation:

https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd

Can't wait to see you there!

If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:

https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007

Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s

Thank you for your support!