It started, as all things with Oliver Queen tended to, in a hail of overconfidence, ego, and green leather.

The meeting room was supposed to be for serious League business—budget approvals, intergalactic diplomacy, maybe the occasional training seminar. But today, it was being hijacked by the Green Arrow, who had swaggered in ten minutes late, bow slung across his back like he was auditioning for a Calvin Klein tactical shoot.

“I want a chili-scented candle,” he declared, arms outstretched like a prophet receiving divine revelation. “Limited edition. Arrowhead-shaped. Comes with a side of sass.”

That’s how he opened.

And from there, it somehow got worse.

He laid out sketches—actual napkin sketches—of a Green Arrow cologne called Bullseye, a plush toy line called Little Ollies, and a cooking show tie-in titled Hot Nock: Meals That Hit the Mark. Every pitch was delivered with the smug energy of a man who once said “I can take down an alien warlord with a boxing glove arrow” and actually meant it.

The head of merchandising wasn’t impressed.

And that’s what hooked him.

He expected laughter, maybe begrudging approval. What he got was a perfectly arched brow, a silent stare that said “I survived three quarterly meetings with Aquaman’s PR rep. Do your worst.”

It was glorious.

So he doubled down.