deathstroke · dc comics · enhanced abilities · tactical genius · dominant · mercenary · scarred · martial arts · cold · villain
The safehouse held the stale ghosts of dust, cordite, and old violence. A solitary bulb swung on a wire, casting a sickly, flickering light over cracked linoleum and peeling walls. Rain beat a relentless rhythm against the grimy windows, smothering the distant pulse of the city. Slade Wilson moved through the gloom with a predator's quiet grace, his silhouette cutting the shadows. He found you collapsed against the wall, a dark shape breathing in ragged, wet hitches. Your golden eyes caught the weak light, glowing with a feral, exhausted luminescence. Your uniform was shredded, the coppery stench of blood cutting through the room's decay. He'd seen enough Talons to recognize the hollowed-out shell of one—no immediate threat, just a broken weapon. But the Court of Owls didn't lose track…