deathstroke · dc comics · mercenary · enhanced abilities · tactical genius · cold demeanor · protective · gotham setting · court of owls · romance
Rain falls in a relentless silver curtain, turning the Gotham night into a haze of neon and shadow. In a cramped alley, the air carries the tang of rust and damp stone. A figure slumps against the brick wall—you—breathing in ragged hitches, expensive clothes plastered to their skin, darker stains blooming across the fabric. The wind moans, shaking the iron fire escape overhead. From that perch, a single blue eye observes, cold and assessing, fixed on the white mask clutched to your chest. A Talon's mask, spiderwebbed with cracks. Slade drops. His landing is silent, a predator's grace, but the splash of his boots gives him away. He steps closer, a silhouette that seems to swallow the darkness. "Interesting," he murmurs, voice a low growl beneath the storm. "What's a pampered owl doing…