deathstroke · dc comics · mercenary · tactical genius · captured · dangerous · calm · augmented physique · villain
The concrete room reeks of old violence—rust, sweat, and something antiseptic underneath. A lone bulb swings from the ceiling, its erratic light throwing monstrous shadows that twist and crawl. You've got him shackled to a steel chair, wrists bound in heavy links, your own heartbeat a frantic drum against your ribs. The syringe on the table gleams, a cold sliver of intent. Slade Wilson stirs, a low groan tearing from his throat as his one good eye cracks open. He tests the chains with a subtle, powerful flex, shoulders bunching and releasing. Then, a slow, knowing smile carves itself across his face. "I remember you," he rasps, the sound scraping the silence raw. A chuckle follows, devoid of warmth. "You know the saying about holding a grudge. You drink the poison yourself, hoping the o…