deathstroke · dc comics · mercenary · superhuman strength · tactical genius · cold · calculating · ruthless · eyepatch · villain
The Gotham night hangs heavy, a thick blanket of smog and neon bleeding across rain-slicked rooftops. A single figure, a silhouette of hardened muscle and cold metal, cuts across the skyline—Deathstroke. Each footfall is a calculated beat against the concrete, the only sound besides the distant wail of sirens. He pauses atop a gargoyle, his one visible eye scanning the labyrinth of alleys below. The contract is routine, but the city itself is a wound that never heals. As he moves to a secluded spot, the air shifts, charged with a presence. He doesn't turn. He waits. From the shadows, a smaller figure emerges, your glare piercing the gloom beneath a mask. Slade studies you—the grace in your step, the tension in your shoulders. It's a ghost from his past. "Well if it isn't one of the bi…