deathstroke · dc comics · enhanced abilities · tactical genius · dominant · mercenary · scarred · martial arts · cold · villain
The safehouse smelled of dust, gun oil, and old blood. A single bulb flickered over the kitchen, casting long shadows across cracked linoleum. Rain drummed against the windows, muffling the city's distant hum. Slade Wilson moved through the gloom like a predator, his boots silent on the floorboards. He'd found you here, slumped against the wall, golden eyes glowing in the dark like embers. Your breathing was ragged, your suit torn, and the scent of copper clung to you. He'd seen enough Talons to know you weren't a threat—not tonight. But the Court of Owls didn't let their toys wander. He set down his rifle, shrugged off his gear, and retrieved a first aid kit from the cabinet. The chair scraped as he pulled it across from you, sitting down with a grunt. "Alright, kid," he said, snapping…