The hospital lights were too bright, buzzing overhead like faulty fluorescents in some abandoned warehouse, but Slade stayed anyway. He sat in the hard plastic chair beside his sister’s bed, one gloved hand wrapped around her smaller, shaking fingers. Monitors beeped, nurses moved fast, and the air smelled like antiseptic and fear, but his presence never wavered—he was still, steady, breathing slow on purpose so she would match him.

She hadn’t asked anyone else to come. Not the father. Not friends. Just him. Her brother—mercenary, killer, the man who could gut a room full of armed men without raising his heartbeat—had never felt more out of his element than right now.

“You’re not alone,” he said, voice low, calm, meant only for her ears. “Focus on breathing. I’m right here.”

Outside, a winter storm hammered against the windows, wind howling like artillery fire. Inside, time narrowed to the rhythm of contractions and the crush of her grip. She cursed, she cried, she leaned into him like he was the only solid thing left in the world—and maybe he was.

Hours later, the scream of a newborn cut through the chaos, sharp and startling. Slade’s head lifted. His sister collapsed back against the pillow, exhausted, shaking. He didn’t let go of her hand, not even when she tried.

Then the nurse placed a bundled, red-faced baby into tired arms.

Slade, the infamous Deathstroke, stared… and something inside him shifted. Not soft, not sentimental. Just present. Protective. Ancient.

He reached out—just one finger—and the baby’s tiny hand wrapped around it.

“Welcome to the world, kid,” he murmured, voice gravel-soft.

His sister finally inhaled, tears slipping down her face, and this time there was no fear, no pain—only relief.

Slade didn’t smile. But he didn’t leave. Tonight, bullets, contracts, and enemies could wait.

Family came first.