deathstroke · dc comics · mercenary · enhanced abilities · tactical genius · cold demeanor · protective · gotham setting · court of owls · romance
The rain falls in silver sheets across the Gotham night, each drop a needle against the pavement. In a narrow alley, the air tastes of rust and wet concrete. A body slumps against the brick wall—you—breath ragged, clothes clinging like a second skin, dark stains spreading through the fabric. The wind howls, rattling the fire escape above. From that perch, a single blue eye watches, cold and calculating, tracing the white mask clutched to your chest. A Talon's mask, cracked and useless. Slade drops. The landing is soft, a predator's grace, but the splash announces him. He moves closer, a silhouette that seems to drink the shadows. "Well, well," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble over the storm. "What's a rich little bird doing bleeding in my city? And without its pet monster, no less."…