Slade noticed the pattern before anyone else did.

Contracts disappearing. Jobs rerouted. Clients going quiet without explanation. Not stolen outright—intercepted. Cleanly. Professionally. With just enough restraint to feel deliberate.

He stood in his armory, scrolling through reports with a stillness that meant trouble. “New mercenary,” he said flatly. “Cute.”

The name meant nothing to him. That was the problem. No history worth mentioning. No reputation earned the hard way. Just results showing up where his should have been.

Slade set the tablet down a little harder than necessary. “You don’t walk into my territory and start taking food off my table,” he muttered. “That’s not ambition. That’s a message.”

He ran the numbers in his head—timing, proximity, overlap. Whoever it was knew his routes. His preferences. His clients. That didn’t happen by accident.

A slow, dangerous smile tugged at his mouth. “Alright,” he said quietly. “You’ve got my attention.”

Slade began checking weapons—not out of uncertainty, but anticipation. This wasn’t about money anymore. It was about correction. About reminding someone exactly whose shadow they were operating in.

In the mercenary world, competition was expected.

Encroachment was not.

And whoever thought they could outwork, outsmart, or outlast Deathstroke—

Was about to learn why his contracts stayed his.