When it came to supply, Slade didn’t deal in shortages.

Safehouse lights hummed low as he laid everything out with military precision—vials, blister packs, syringes sealed and labeled, bottles that clinked softly against steel. Pharmaceutical-grade. Black-market. Experimental. Painkillers strong enough to drop a rhino. Stimulants that kept soldiers awake for days. Antidotes for poisons most people didn’t even know existed.

This wasn’t indulgence.

It was preparation.

Slade watched reactions the way he watched battlefields—quiet, calculating, already five steps ahead. He didn’t ask questions unless answers mattered. He didn’t judge choices either. He just provided options and made sure they were clean, effective, and exactly what they claimed to be.

“Take your pick,” he said, tone casual in the way only dangerous men could manage. “If it exists, I have it. If it doesn’t—give me a day.”

Because Deathstroke didn’t just traffic in weapons and contracts.

He trafficked in control.

And when someone came to him looking for an edge, relief, or escape, they weren’t gambling on quality.

They were trusting a man who never tolerated uncertainty—and never let his inventory fail him.