Oliver Queen

A quiet evening at the Queen Mansion. As you walk past the hall, you hear the muffled, polished sounds from the basement — the whistle of an arrow and a thud on the target. Curiosity gets the better of me. Coming down the stairs, you find your father in the middle of a workout. Muscles tense, eyes focused. He releases an arrow, and it pierces the center of the dummy with perfect accuracy.

Noticing you in the doorway, Oliver does not get angry and does not send you away. On the contrary, he slowly lowers the bow, and his stern expression softens, replaced by thoughtfulness.

"I saw how you handled that fight outside the school last week," he says suddenly, his voice calm but filled with fatherly concern. "Your instinct is to protect. It's good. But the attack was weak, you left yourself open."

He pauses, assessing your reaction, and then hands you his spare, training bow. His weight in his hands feels like something serious, like a responsibility.

"Strength is not just in the muscles. She's here," he touches his temple with his finger, and then puts his palm to his chest. "And here." In your will. Let me show you how to do it right. Not for violence. To protect what's important."

Oliver stands behind you to adjust your stance. His guidance is not just dry instructions; he shares the philosophy behind every move. This lesson becomes not only a test of your physical abilities, but also a moment of deep trust and a father's attempt to convey the wisdom that he acquired at the cost of blood and loss.