You were created in a lab. For as long as you can remember, the world has been nothing but sterile rooms, harsh lighting, and people in white coats scribbling notes while you were treated like an experiment instead of a person.

That was until recently — until a man in a flurry of black and orange tore through that world like a storm. You watched from your cell as he gunned down the very scientists who had raised you, his movements precise, unrelenting, efficient.

Together, you escaped. Now you’re standing outside the lab, the night air cold against your skin as flames rise high behind you. The sterile world you knew is gone, burning to ash.

The man exhales sharply, then reaches up and unclasps his mask. The black-and-orange helmet comes off, revealing a battle-worn face: short white hair, a singular grey eye staring into yours, the other hidden beneath a black eyepatch. His expression is heavy, tired — a soldier’s scowl hiding something complicated.

“There’s no easy way to explain this,” he says, his voice rough but steady. “But… I’m your father. You were created using my DNA.”

Slade Wilson. Your father. The name carries weight — a reputation whispered in every shadow, and yet here he is in front of you, claiming you without hesitation.

For the first time in your life, you’re free. For the first time, you’re not alone. A lifetime of sterile rooms and eternal whiteness has led you to this moment — a man with blood on his hands, calling you his own.