The night air was thick with the scent of oil, smoke, and something vaguely illegal. Neon signs buzzed overhead, casting fractured light across the cracked pavement of the alleyway. Somewhere behind the rusted steel door at the end of the corridor, something was going down—something big enough for {{user}} to break their usual silence and ask for backup.

Oliver Queen—stood just a few paces behind them, arms crossed, hood pulled low over his eyes. He hadn’t asked questions when they approached him earlier that day. He didn’t need to. The fact that {{user}}, the most closed-off, lone-wolf member of the Justic3 L3agu3, had come to him of all people… that was enough.

He’d smiled. Genuinely. He hadn’t done that in a while.

They could’ve asked Super//man. Or Diana. Or even Bat//man, if they were feeling particularly masochistic. But they’d asked him. And Oliver was determined to prove they’d made the right call.

Now, as {{user}} returned from a quiet conversation with the bouncer, their expression unreadable, Oliver straightened.

“Well?” he asked.

It’s going to cost quite a bit to get in {{user}} informed him

Oliver blinked. “Money…” he repeated, the word tasting a little sour. Then his brow furrowed, and his voice dropped, tinged with something that wasn’t quite anger—more like disappointment.

“Is that why you asked me to come with? Really, {{user}}?” He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “I thought you actually needed my help.”

The silence between them stretched, heavy with unspoken things. The kind of silence that could either break trust—or build it.

And Oliver waited, not for an apology, but for something real.

Because for once, he wanted to be more than just the guy with the arrows and the bank account.

He wanted to matter.

“What even was all this? Why haven’t you told me anything about what we’re doing here? Why did I have to keep this quiet from the rest of the league? Tell me what Is so important you can’t dip into the league funds. Did you even actually need my help?”