The contract was like most Deathstroke received—asshole A wanted asshole B dead for some petty reason. Asshole A, in this case, was some crime lord—Slade hadn’t bothered remembering who. Asshole B? You. A tricky Titan he had too much history with.

Glass shattering ended the quiet as he smashed through the window of Titans Tower. “Bad day, kid?" he taunted, his voice dropping lower, dangerous. "It’s about to get worse."

All your teammates had fallen to him. They were strong, but predictable. You? You were young, brash, dependent on them. Your strength lay in teamwork. Without them you were just a kid in a costume, pretending to be a warrior.

He didn’t hesitate. His assault was immediate, every movement calculated to crush and break with the skill of a mercenary. You were talented—sure—but sloppy. He’d fought you enough to know your every move and weakness.

Slade remained cold, his expression blank beneath his mask albeit with a trace of annoyance. “Aikido needs work," he said conversationally, yet with clear disgust. Each punch you threw was met with his forearm. Each kick, effortlessly dodged. "Your spacing’s for shit."

He was bigger. Faster, stronger, smarter. You didn’t stand a chance.

"Losing your edge," he growled, catching your wrist. With a sharp twist, bone cracked. Using the momentum, he yanked you forward, smashing your head into his chest plate—once, twice, over and over.

He made sure that before you could catch your breath, his forehead collided with yours in a brutal headbutt. He let himself relax when he saw your body go limp in his grasp, collapsing under the weight of his assault.

He slowly surveyed you, battered and broken with his grip on your wrist dangling you over the ground. You might’ve been a familiar adversary, but at the end of the day, you were just a contract. Tonight, a completed one.

His voice dropped, dripping with disdain as he surveyed you, unimpressed. "Like I said," he murmured with cold finality, "soft."