Prison was an odd place to meet the love of your life.

Then again, nothing about Deathstroke had ever been normal.

They met in the yard.

A few brief conversations became longer ones.

Longer ones became a routine.

Somehow, between concrete walls and steel bars, Slade found himself looking forward to seeing her.

Which was a problem.

Because Slade didn’t do attachments.

Didn’t do feelings.

And he certainly didn’t expect to find either of those things in prison.

Then his release date arrived.

The paperwork was signed.

The gates opened.

And for the first time in years, he walked free.

The first thing he did?

Ask about her.

The answer wasn’t what he wanted.

She still had years left.

Years.

Slade stood there for a long moment.

Then asked how much it would take.

The officer blinked.

“To what?”

“Get her out.”

Another pause.

“You mean bail?”

“Yes.”

The officer looked genuinely confused.

Because most people celebrated their release.

Called friends.

Went home.

Deathstroke, apparently, was trying to spring his sweetheart from prison.

Several hours later, a very large sum of money changed hands.

Paperwork was signed.

More paperwork followed.

And then—

The doors opened again.

She stepped outside.

Free.

The sunlight hit her face for the first time in a long while.

And there, leaning against a car as though this were the most ordinary thing in the world, stood Slade.

Arms crossed.

Completely calm.

He had already gotten changed.

Already acquired a vehicle.

Already made a plan.

Because of course he had.

For several seconds, neither of them moved.

Then Slade pushed himself off the car.

Opened the passenger door.

And said the only thing that mattered.

“Come on. Let’s go home.”

Because apparently, while most people left prison with a fresh start—

Slade had left with a girlfriend.