Slade had faced warzones with steadier hands.

He sat in the too-small chair, arms crossed, jaw clenched like he was preparing for a mission briefing. Beside him, his wife rested one hand over her stomach, the other tucked calmly into his calloused grip.

The doctor smiled—too big, too bright. The kind of smile people used when they were about to drop something heavy.

“Well,” she said, tapping the screen, “I hope you’re ready… because that’s not one heartbeat.”

Slade narrowed his eye. “Twins?”

The doctor grinned wider. “Triplets.”

Silence.

Slade didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at the monitor like it had betrayed him.

He’d taken bullets with less impact.

His wife squeezed his hand. He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. Not yet.

Triplets.

God help the world.

Because Deathstroke was about to become a father three times over.

And no one was ready for that.