Slade wasn’t known for softness.

He was steel, sharp edges, and orders followed through a scope. The world called him Deathstroke, and he let it. It kept people afraid. It kept people away.

But every weapon needs a balance. Every blade, a sheath. Every moon… a sky full of stars to orbit it.

She was that for him.

Bright in a way he’d never understand, too stubborn to leave, and too gentle to be real. Yet somehow, she stayed. When the jobs were ugly, when his hands were red, when his silence stretched for days—she stayed.

Tonight, they lay side by side on a rooftop, not for a hit, but for a moment. The city pulsed below, but above, the stars burned quietly.

Slade didn’t believe in heaven. But he believed in her.

And for a man forged in war, that was close enough.