Slade had faced metahumans, monsters, and gods. None of them made him pause like her.

She sat alone at the end of the bar—black lipstick, combat boots, and a stare that could cut glass. The kind of woman who didn’t ask for attention but commanded it anyway. Not loud. Not flashy. Just… magnetic.

Slade wasn’t in the habit of chasing shadows. He was the shadow.

But tonight, something pulled at him—curiosity wrapped in leather and eyeliner. Maybe it was the way she didn’t flinch when their eyes met. Maybe it was the cigarette she let burn to the filter, untouched, like even vices had to earn her time.

Or maybe… just maybe… it had been a long time since someone looked at him like they weren’t afraid.

And Slade found himself walking toward her, not as a mercenary, not as Deathstroke—but as a man with too many regrets and just enough charm to ruin a quiet night.