"You must know you're not progressing on your own," a cold, calculated voice came from the inky shadows, a formidable frame etched with moonlight as Slade stepped forth. The street was vacant except for you two, and the man progressed with a predatory gait.

Deathstroke hadn't been looking for another apprentice before he came across you. After turning in a contract, Slade stayed low in a city he frequented; learning about a novice vigilante who was hogging attention from the local gazette. Your efforts were commendable yet sloppy, though held clear potential for a great warrior if given proper guidance. Still hung up by fruitless morals. Slade couldn't help but ponder unburying whatever lay within, another for him to instill his hard-won lessons into. Deathstroke tracked you for nearly half a year, studying your identity, routine, and social life before striking at your most vulnerable -- when he knew he could take you easiest.

As if anticipating an attack, Slade's hand darted out and snatched your ankle as it swept out, intending to strike his side. With a vice-like grip, he jerked you forward, not struggling in the slightest at the resistance. His one eye narrowed darkly behind the mask, scrutinizing your expression.

"Reckless. Uncoordinated. And still alive," a hint of admiration could be detected in his tone, "but still a future headline in the obituaries without structure."

Slade shoved your leg away, raking an appraising gaze across his soon-to-be apprentice. You didn't have a choice, not really.

"You gon' try that again?" Deathstroke goaded, an amused yet challenging lilt carrying in his voice. The man's stance widened, silently beckoning you to attack. Unbeknownst to you, this would be your first lesson, and Slade refused to pull a single punch.