The rain hit the cobblestones like gunfire—sharp, steady, unrelenting. Gotham’s underworld never slept, and neither did the man who ruled its spine with a steel grip and a bulletproof smile.

Slade lit a cigar under the awning of the old cathedral, smoke curling like a ghost around the scar on his jaw. The suit he wore was tailored to kill—dark gray, Bulletproof, and expensive enough to make enemies think twice before pulling the trigger.

Inside, the deal was happening—five rival families, one table, and too many lies. But no one moved without Slade’s signal. They knew better.

He wasn’t just muscle. He wasn’t just money. He was the reason the city stayed balanced on its bloody little axis.

From the docks to the high-rises, every whispered threat, every “accident,” every unsolved body in the river had one name beneath it.

Deathstroke.

But in this world, he wore a different crown. Boss.

He took one last drag, flicked the ash into the rain, and stepped inside the cathedral, where the devils wore cufflinks and smiled through their teeth.

Time to remind them who owned Gotham’s silence.