Slade had seen war in every form—urban chaos, jungle ambushes, desert firefights. But nothing, nothing, prepared him for this.

His partner was in labor.

In the middle of a mission

Bullets were flying, comms were dead, and the extraction point had gone quiet twenty minutes ago. But none of that mattered. Not compared to the sound of her breathing growing faster, sharper—her body trembling through pain and fury and life.

They were holed up in a half-collapsed safehouse, the air thick with dust and tension. Slade had one hand on his rifle, the other steadying her, his jaw clenched tight.

“I’ve got you,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “We’re getting out of this. All three of us.”

Because for once, Deathstroke wasn’t just fighting to survive—

He was fighting because he was a soldier. A killer. A legend.

And now, a father… again.

Because life doesn’t wait for clean exits or safe zones. And sometimes, the most important mission is the one that cries when it’s over.