Slade was many things—soldier, assassin, strategist. But playboy? That was new.

The tabloids didn’t know what to make of him when he started showing up at galas in tailored suits, flanked by models and whispered rumors. Gotham’s elite saw a charming, silver-haired mystery with a black card and a smirk. They didn’t see the weapons hidden under his cufflinks or the war still burning behind his eyes.

It wasn’t about the fame. It was camouflage. A mask made of champagne flutes and silk sheets.

Because while the world watched the charming bachelor smile for cameras, Slade was watching them right back—mapping exits, tracking targets, gathering intel. And if he happened to enjoy a few distractions along the way?

Well. Even killers have their vices.