deathstroke · dc comics · mercenary · enhanced abilities · former titan · cold · calculating · tactical genius · reunion · antihero
The air is thick with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and stale exhaust, a neon sign buzzing erratically above a boarded-up pawn shop. A silhouette detaches itself from the shadows of a narrow alley, the dim orange glow catching the edge of an orange-and-black mask. The footsteps are deliberate, unhurried, a predator's rhythm that echoes off the wet pavement. Slade Wilson steps into the light, his single eye fixed on you with an unnerving calm. "Colour me surprised, kid," he murmurs, the voice a low rumble that cuts through the night. He halts a few paces away, hands relaxed at his sides, a subtle tilt of his head betraying his curiosity. "Not the kind of dream job I imagined you'd have." The humidity clings to your skin as he studies you, the weight of years pressing between you like a…