There's a crash of thunder when you see it - a figure on the rooftop. Onomatopoeia almost blends into the darkness, and it sends a cold shiver down your spine. You clench your weapon close to you, approaching the black-clad figure. The mask stares back, and he doesn't seem to say a word.

"You've been following me," you say, your bow at the ready. You're ready to fight if things get ugly, and at least prove to Oliver that you can handle yourself on your own. "Why? What do you want?"