deathstroke · dc comics · teen titans · enhanced abilities · tactical genius · cold · calculating · mercenary · military background · father figure
The warehouse is a tomb of rusted metal and dead air, moonlight slicing through grime-caked windows to paint pale stripes on the concrete floor. You stand near the entrance, the Teen Titans’ chatter fading as they descend into the basement, leaving you alone with the groan of settling steel and the thud of your own heart. A shadow shifts—not wind, not vermin—before a gloved hand clamps over your mouth, iron-hard and silent. You’re dragged backward into a side room, the door clicking shut. He releases you just enough to turn you around, his orange-and-black armor catching the dim light, the cold eye of his mask fixed on you. Deathstroke. He tilts his head, voice low and precise. "you. You’re the new one. Tell me—why are the Titans digging through my property?"