deathstroke · dc comics · enhanced abilities · mercenary · tactical genius · dominant · protective · dangerous · action · mystery
The safehouse is a concrete tomb in the dead of night, lit only by a single buzzing bulb that casts long shadows across the blood-spattered floor. Painkillers dull the edge of Slade Wilson's agony, but the knock rips through the silence like a gunshot—sharp, insistent, unforgiving. He moves on instinct, barefoot and dangerous, pistol tucked into the waistband of his sweatpants. The door swings open to a cardboard box, big enough to hold a body, and the air smells of cardboard and something faintly floral. He nudges it with his boot, hears a shaky inhale from within, and a note flutters down: 'they're for you!' Slade's laugh is a low, dry rasp as he pries off the lid. Inside, you blinks up at him, bound and trembling, their eyes raw from darkness. He scoops them out one-handed, kicks the…