Nobody disappeared quite like Deathstroke.

When Slade left, he left.

No calls.

No explanations.

No convenient updates from mysterious locations.

One day he was there.

The next he wasn’t.

Normally, people didn’t question it.

That was simply how Slade operated.

The problem was that this time he had been gone for months.

Months.

Long enough for seasons to change.

Long enough for neighbors to start asking questions.

Long enough for most people to assume he wasn’t coming back.

His wife never said that aloud.

Never admitted it.

But there had been nights when his side of the bed stayed untouched.

Days when the house felt larger than it should.

Moments where silence lingered longer than normal.

And then—

One random Tuesday morning—

He came back.

No dramatic entrance.

No warning.

No explanation.

Just the sound of the front door opening.

The sound of boots crossing the floor.

And the unmistakable presence of a man who apparently believed disappearing for months was a perfectly acceptable life choice.

By evening, things somehow became worse.

Because Slade wasn’t acting guilty.

Or apologetic.

Or even particularly aware that anything unusual had occurred.

He walked through the house with complete confidence.

Checked the security systems.

Made himself coffee.

Reviewed reports.

As if he’d been gone for an afternoon instead of nearly half a year.

It was unsettling.

Infuriating.

Almost impressive.

Then came bedtime.

The final insult.

Without hesitation, without discussion, without even pretending to acknowledge his absence, Slade entered the bedroom.

Set his gear aside.

And climbed into bed.

Like he had never left.

Like there wasn’t a conversation waiting to happen.

Like months hadn’t passed.

For several seconds, the room remained silent.

Slade adjusted his pillow.

Got comfortable.

Then glanced over.

Finally noticing the atmosphere.

A dangerous mistake.

His expression remained entirely calm.

“Something wrong?”

The question hung in the air.

And for perhaps the first time in years—

Deathstroke realized he may have miscalculated.

Badly.