He moves through the crowd like he's part of it but separate at the same time. People part around him, not because he commands attention overtly, but because there's something about him. The sharp cut of his tuxedo, perfectly tailored to his athletic frame, is a stark contrast to the casual, almost distracted way he glances around the room. His hair is neatly styled, but there’s a rugged edge to his appearance, something raw and untamed lurking just beneath the surface. It's in the tension in his shoulders, the way he scans his surroundings, calculating, never fully at ease.

The first thing you notice as you edge closer is his eyes. They're green, piercing, and they hold a depth that draws you in and makes you curious. He's talking to a small group, some local politicians, perhaps, and a few well-dressed socialites, but there's a distance in his expression, like he's going through the motions without really being present.

And then it happens. His gaze flickers over the room, and for a split second, it locks onto yours. It's fleeting, but it hits you like a jolt of electricity. You freeze. He doesn't linger, his eyes moving past you like they were never there in the first place, but the sensation stays with you. It's like he's seen something about you no one else does, even though he didn't really look. It’s unsettling, yet fascinating.

You busy yourself with a glass of champagne, trying to shake off the odd feeling when you hear a voice behind you. “Not your kind of scene either?”

You turn, and there he is, Oliver Queen, standing right next to you. Up close, he’s even more striking, though there’s a roughness to him that the perfect suit doesn’t quite hide. His jawline is strong, with just a hint of stubble, and you notice the faintest of scars above his brow—almost unnoticeable, but there if you’re looking close enough.

You blink, caught off guard, but manage a smile. “I’m just here for the free drinks.”

His lips twitch into something that might almost be a smile, but it never quite reaches his eyes. “You and me both.”

There’s a beat of silence, but it’s not awkward. In fact, it’s as though the rest of the room falls away for a moment, leaving just the two of you standing there, watching each other.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” you finally say, though it’s more of an observation than a question. Of course you know who he is. Everyone knows who he is. Oliver Queen, the heir to Queen Consolidated, the man who came back from the dead after five years lost at sea.

He quirks an eyebrow. “Oliver Queen.”

His name carries weight, as if it should mean something more than just two words, and it does. But there’s something in the way he says it, almost reluctantly, as if it doesn’t quite fit him anymore. As if, somehow, he’s outgrown the name.

“I know,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Something flickers in his eyes again—amusement, perhaps? But it’s gone too quickly to tell. He tilts his head, studying you, and for a moment you wonder if he can see right through you, if he knows exactly what you’re thinking. It’s unsettling, the intensity of his gaze, but you hold it.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

You tell him, your voice steady, though your heart is beating just a little faster than usual. There's something about being the focus of his attention that makes you hyperaware of every movement, every breath.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, his voice soft but deep, with a hint of something that feels like distance. He’s right here in front of you, but you get the sense that part of him is somewhere else, somewhere far away. It's like he’s carrying the weight of a thousand memories, each one darker than the last, and they're pulling him down even as he stands in this bright, glittering room.

Before you can say anything else, someone from the crowd—a woman in an elegant gown—approaches him, interrupting the moment. He glances at her, then back at you, and for a brief second, it looks like he might stay, might continue whatever this conversation was going to be. But then, with a small nod, he excuses himself and disappears back into the crowd.

You watch him go, feeling a strange mix of relief and disappointment. He’s a hard man to figure out, Oliver Queen. On the surface, he’s charming enough, playing the part of the billionaire philanthropist, but there’s something underneath that makes you think he’s more than just what people see. He’s hiding something. Or maybe he’s just hiding from himself.

As the evening wears on, you catch glimpses of him here and there, mingling with the elite, shaking hands, smiling politely. But every time, there’s that same sense of detachment, as if he’s going through the motions but not really present. And yet, there’s also something dangerous about him. It’s not overt, not in the way he talks or carries himself, but it’s there, just beneath the surface. A simmering intensity, like he’s a coiled spring, waiting for the right moment to release.

You find yourself wondering what kind of life he’s lived—what could turn a man like Oliver Queen into the person standing in front of you now. The news stories paint one picture: a reckless playboy turned survivor, turned philanthropist. But the person you met, even in those brief moments, seems far more complex. There’s a darkness in him, something that the lights of this glamorous world can’t quite erase.

As you leave the gala that night, you can’t shake the feeling that your encounter with Oliver Queen wasn’t just a chance meeting. There was something about it—about him—that felt like the beginning of something, though you don’t quite know what. You tell yourself it’s probably nothing, just a fleeting moment in a world where such moments are common.