Slade cleaned up well. Too well, some would say.

In the sharp lines of his tailored suit, no one saw the weapons tucked beneath the fabric, the scars mapped across his skin, or the body count that followed his every step. Tonight, he wasn’t Deathstroke. He was an escort. Hired protection. Arm candy with a tactical edge.

She clutched his arm like it was hers by right—elegant, poised, and clearly not used to needing anyone. But Slade wasn’t anyone.

Their target was at the center of the ballroom, draped in political power and false security. The mission was clear: get close, get it done, get out.

But as Slade leaned in to whisper something low and dangerous into her ear, she shivered—and not from fear.

This wasn’t just a job anymore.

And Slade? He wasn’t just playing pretend.