The words he keeps using are cold and specific, and driven and there's ... she doesn't want to call it passion. But that, too. Just. Just so cold, too. And. Pride. It's so removed. And there's something like that. Something remorseless and unashamed. Earned. It's crazy. None of that makes any sense. Not for. Anything. Anything that was anything. Oliver Queen, an Assassin? Adopted son to some kind of, what, king of Assassins?

Not that she'd believe in the Amazons, or much even remember them as something more than hazily belonging to a history class in her childhood, before the Gambit, had she?

"And it all tried to kill you," καναρίνι couldn't stop herself from throwing back. "Wouldn't the be reason enough to leave it alone, and behind you? If they all, probably, think you're dead?"