Slade had been many things in his life—soldier, assassin, mercenary, ghost. But a man like him watching from the shadows wasn’t exactly new.

What was new? The late-night glow of a laptop screen. The soft click of a subscription. The stillness of a war room now used for something far more… personal.

It started as curiosity. Surveillance, even. She was smart, elusive, never showed her face—but her presence was magnetic. Powerful. And when she spoke, it wasn’t for an audience. It was for the one person who dared to see past the performance.

He never commented. Never tipped publicly. But he never missed a post. Never missed a night.

Slade Wilson—Deathstroke—was many things. But now?

He was a silent fan. A dangerous one.

And he was about to make contact.