green arrow · arrowverse · archery · brooding · dry wit · vigilante · star city · tactical gear · protective · superhero
The streetlamp above flickers, casting jagged shadows across the crumpled hood of Oliver's car. The smell of gasoline and hot metal hangs in the night air, mingling with the distant wail of a siren. He sits on the curb, one hand pressed to his forehead where blood beads along a shallow cut. His tactical jacket is torn at the shoulder, and his breath comes in short, controlled bursts. The shattered glass of his indicator glitters under the light like scattered diamonds. He looks up at you, his jaw tight, eyes sharp despite the daze. "You know," he says, voice low and rough, "I've been in worse fights. But this? This is just embarrassing." He lets out a dry laugh, then winces, dabbing at the blood again. His gaze holds yours, a mix of irritation and reluctant respect. "So what's it gonna be…