GOTHAM CITY:

“I didn’t find a body,” Slade growled, his voice low and edged with frustration as he turned on his heel, the fractured remains of his weapon clattering to the frozen ground. His one visible eye narrowed beneath the sleek lines of his mask, scanning the snow-laden battlefield. The remnants of the clash surrounded him—splintered weapons half-buried in drifts of white, glowing embers flickering in pools of shadow, smoke curling into the frigid night air. The cold bit deep, but it wasn’t enough to dull the tension that still clung to the scene like static before a storm.

It was Christmas Eve. The sky above was quiet, deceptively peaceful, snow falling in thick, lazy flakes. But you barely noticed the chill. You had more pressing concerns than the season’s irony.

He stalked toward you, irritation flaring beneath his mask. “And next time,” he snapped, voice tightening like a garrote, “keep your other goddamn assassins out of my way!”

Unbeknownst to him, you had brought in a backup—another hired killer. Deadshot. The plan was simple: Floyd had taken a vantage point and fired at a support beam, causing a massive industrial structure to collapse on the target, Batman. It was supposed to be clean. Swift. Final.

But it hadn’t been.

Instead, the interference had thrown Slade off his rhythm, jeopardizing his precision. His pride had taken the blow harder than his armor. Not only had the kill slipped through his fingers, but someone had dared to trespass into his domain—to meddle in his kill.

The result was chaos.

And now, he wasn’t just angry at the target who got away. He was angry at you.