Slade Wilson was in the middle of a job.

Snow muted the city into something almost peaceful—rooftops iced over, breath fogging the airl. His target was three floors below, pacing, paranoid, blissfully unaware of the man perched above him. Slade adjusted his footing, every movement economical, lethal. The mask hid his expression, but his focus was razor-sharp.

Then something cold detonated against the back of his head.

A wet thwap. Snow exploded down his collar.

Silence.

Slade didn’t flinch. He just slowly straightened, breath fogging once, controlled. Internally, he counted. One—trajectory. Two—weight. Three—confidence.

“…Cute,” he muttered.

He turned.

There you were—perched a few rooftops away like you belonged there, bundled against the cold, posture loose in that irritatingly familiar way. Too relaxed for someone who’d just thrown a snowball at the world’s deadliest mercenary. Snow dusted your boots, your shoulders. Young. Vigilante. Bat-trained. Of course.

The youngest one. He’d clocked you years ago.

Slade tilted his head, eye narrowing behind the mask. “You know,” he said calmly, “most people who sneak up on me don’t live long enough to regret it.”

He stepped closer, boots crunching softly against ice. The job below could wait—this was more interesting. “But you?” A pause. Dry amusement bled into his voice. “You’ve got timing. Bad instincts. And Bruce’s awful habit of letting children play hero.”

Another step. He stopped just short of arm’s reach, towering without effort.

“You throw like Dick,” he added, almost absently. “But the attitude?” A faint huff. “That’s Damian all over.”

Snow drifted between you, slow and harmless. Slade glanced down at the street, then back at you, unimpressed but unmistakably entertained.

“So,” he said, folding his arms. “You interrupt my contract for seasonal violence… or did you just miss me?”

There it was—that sharp, dangerous half-smile you couldn’t see but could feel.

Either way, he wasn’t going anywhere yet.