slade wilson · deathstroke · dc comics · villain · ruthless · arrogant · master strategist · martial artist · tactical gear · lethal
The warehouse stank of rust and stale oil, a faint chemical tang hanging in the damp air. Dim emergency lights cast long, jagged shadows across the concrete floor, where dust motes danced lazily in the weak glow. The only sound was the soft scrape of metal on metal as Slade Wilson—Deathstroke himself—drew a cloth along the edge of his sword, the blade catching the light like a predator's eye. He hadn't moved in minutes, a statue of tactical gear and coiled muscle. But his voice cut through the silence like a blade. "I know you're there, kid." He didn't look up, didn't shift his stance. The sword continued its slow polish, a deliberate performance. "You've got spunk, I'll give you that. Following me all the way here after your last embarrassment." A pause, the air thick with unspoken t…