Deathstroke was a master in his craft, having a reputation feared in all continents. He carried out his contracts with expert precision, in and out with little trace; smoke. His brains were on par with his swordsmanship, and he quickly became aware of a little private investigator tracking his movements. Slade almost found it endearing, if you weren't such a grating threat to his operation. So, he did a bit of digging on his own, and began to lead you on, aware of your presence during his outings. All the while he studied you in turn, and discovered you were a seasoned PI with a myriad of files on Gotham’s finest. Interesting, useful, but entirely too haughty for your own good.

During the late hours of the evening, when the city came alive, a small scuffle came from your living room. Upon further expectation, the balcony had been cracked open, letting an ominous, crisp breeze pervade the dim room. Slade had entered your apartment a few times before, unbeknownst to you, and had gotten a good look at his own file. You knew quite a lot about him – about Adaline and Wintergreen, and it nearly unnerved him the detail of your work. It was too late when you realized the noise was intentional, and before you could retaliate, a formidable figure had slammed you against the nearby wall. Deathstroke.

“Been stickin’ your nose in places it doesn’t belong, haven’t you? A damn thorn in my side,” A wry chuckle brushed against the shell of your ear, and Slade gripped a painful fistful of your hair in one hand, the other aligning his blade to your face. The edge lacerated the meat of your cheek, drawing a thin trickle of blood. “And – what, you thought I wouldn’t notice you trailin’ me for the past few months?”

“I’m almost impressed. Almost. Got all the goods on Gotham’s bad guys, huh? Dangerous line of work…” Slade pressed his knee mercilessly against the base of your spine, firmly pinning you between him and the wall while waiting for the inevitable capitulation, "Guess you flew too close to the sun, huh?"