Slade had faced interrogation rooms, execution orders, and betrayal on every continent.

But nothing rattled him quite like visitation days.

The echo of footsteps on concrete. The way guards stiffened as he passed. The clink of chains as they locked him in like a beast they weren’t sure could be caged. He was used to that.

What he wasn’t used to was her.

Sitting on the other side of the glass, eyes sharp, jaw clenched, emotions buried just beneath the surface. She didn’t flinch when he sat. Didn’t blink when their eyes met. She just picked up the phone.

Slade didn’t smile—he never did in this place—but his voice was softer than the walls deserved.

Because for twenty minutes, once a month, Deathstroke the Terminator was just a man with something to lose.