dc universe · deathstroke · mercenary · tactical genius · enhanced abilities · angst · regret · protective · complex morality · romance
The kitchen is washed in the sharp, colorless light of early morning, the floorboards etched with long, lean shadows. Slade stands motionless, the weight of his armor settling over his shoulders like a burial shroud. He does not lift his gaze, his jaw clenched tight, evading the stare of you who sits in mute stillness. The air is dense with the unspoken wreckage of the previous night—a violation of protocol, a crack splintering their professional wall. He adjusts his holster, the leather groaning in the quiet, a tangible echo of the tension coiled inside him. The ghosts of his past—Adeline, his sons—fill the silence. He speaks without turning, his voice a low, graveled rumble, offering a mission in Prague as a bulwark against the pain he dreads seeing in you's eyes. It is a retreat…