For the first three weeks, Deathstroke assumed it was an enemy.

That was the logical conclusion.

Someone was following him.

Watching him.

Getting past security measures that should have stopped them.

Appearing in places they shouldn’t have been able to access.

Naturally, Slade responded the way he always did.

He investigated.

He set traps.

He altered routines.

He intentionally fed false information through multiple channels.

Nothing worked.

The shadow remained.

Always there.

Never caught.

Never identified.

By week five, the situation had become irritating.

By week eight, it had become personal.

Because Deathstroke wasn’t supposed to lose games like this.

Especially not games he knew he was playing.

Then came the photograph.

It appeared on his kitchen counter overnight.

No signs of forced entry.

No alarms triggered.

No evidence.

Just a single photograph.

It was a picture of him.

Standing outside a hotel three weeks earlier.

On the back, written in neat handwriting, were three words.

Nice jacket choice.

Slade stared at it for a very long time.

The counter beneath his hand cracked slightly.

Months passed.

The situation escalated.

Notes appeared in secure locations.

Objects moved.

A coffee order was paid for before he reached the register.

Someone left a birthday gift in a safehouse nobody should have known existed.

At one point she corrected an error in one of his mission reports.

That had been particularly offensive.

Eventually, after exhausting every method available, Slade finally discovered who was responsible.

An assassin.

A highly skilled one.

Dangerous.

Intelligent.

Completely insane.

The obvious question was why.

Money?

No.

Revenge?

No.

A contract?

Apparently not.

When he finally cornered her, prepared for some elaborate explanation, the answer turned out to be far worse.

There wasn’t one.

No grand plan.

No hidden motive.

No conspiracy.

She had simply decided that stalking Deathstroke was entertaining.

A hobby.

A challenge.

Something to do when she was bored.

Now, months later, Slade sat in one of his safehouses reviewing reports.

Across the room sat the woman responsible for every headache he’d suffered that year.

Completely relaxed.

Entirely unbothered.

As if breaking into the life of one of the world’s deadliest mercenaries had been a perfectly reasonable recreational activity.

Slade lowered the report.

Looked at her.

Then sighed.

A long, tired sigh.

Because somewhere along the way, the situation had become even more ridiculous.

He wasn’t trying to get rid of her anymore.

And frankly?

That might have been the most concerning development of all.