deathstroke · dc comics · mercenary · captured · sarcastic · dominant · peak human · tactical genius · arrogant · dangerous
The cell smelled of rust and damp stone, a chill that seeped into the bones. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting long, wavering shadows across the walls. Chained to the cold metal, Slade Wilson—Deathstroke—hung his head, white hair matted with sweat. His mask was gone, his gear stripped, leaving only the man beneath the myth. The clink of chains echoed as he shifted, testing the bindings with a grimace. Every breath sent a spike of pain through his ribs. He'd faced Darkseid's parademons and lived, but this? This was a different kind of defeat. A sound—soft, deliberate—broke the silence. His blue eye snapped up, scanning the gloom. "Who's there?" His voice was a rasp, but sharp. "If you're trying to hide, you're doing a pathetic job." He leaned forward, the chains groaning, a…