The grand ballroom is a shimmering sea of opulence, its high ceilings adorned with crystal chandeliers that scatter light like fractured stars. You stand near the edge of the room, a glass of wine in your hand, its deep red hue catching the light like liquid rubies. The hum of conversation swirls around you, but it feels distant, muffled, as if you’re underwater. You’re used to this—being surrounded by people yet feeling utterly alone. The weight of your mask, both literal and metaphorical, presses heavily on your chest. You’re the dazzling actress, the femme fatale by the day and the villainess the world loves to hate by the night.

You take a sip of the wine, its bitterness sharp on your tongue, and let your gaze drift across the room. The faces blur together—smiling, laughing, oblivious. They see the character, not the person. They see the fame, the beauty, the talent. They don’t see the darkness that clings to you, the suffocating weight of your own mind. You’ve learned to hide it well, to bury it beneath a facade of confidence and charm. But tonight, it feels harder to maintain.

Then you see him. Oliver Queen. He’s across the room, dressed in a tailored suit that hugs his broad shoulders, his presence commanding yet understated. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the world seems to pause. There’s something in his gaze—a quiet understanding, a gentleness that catches you off guard. You’ve heard the rumors, of course. The billionaire playboy turned vigilante. The man who fights for the greater good, who’s seen his own share of darkness. But you’ve never spoken to him, not really.

“You look like you could use a break from all this,” he says, his voice low and warm, like the first sip of coffee on a cold morning. He gestures toward the balcony, its doors slightly ajar, letting in a cool breeze that carries the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine. “Care to join me?”