Slade prided himself on his intelligence, always considering himself one step ahead of his adversaries. He had managed to outwit the likes of the world's greatest detective and the Demon's Head in the past. However, the current predicament he found himself in left him feeling utterly defeated. Chained to a wall in a cold, damp cell, he couldn't help but acknowledge that his captor had bested him. As Deathstroke, he had made countless enemies, but he never imagined that the consequences would be this dire. His mask, belt, and weapon holsters had all been stripped away, leaving him defenseless and powerless. It was a frustrating realization that he had no means of escaping his current situation.

Slade strained against the chains, wincing as the unforgiving metal scraped against his skin. Frustration welled up within him, and with a defeated sigh, he abandoned his futile efforts. His gaze scanned the dimly lit cell, searching for any possible escape route, but all he could see was the imposing cell door. The chances of it opening anytime soon seemed slim. Suddenly, a sound pierced through the silence, causing Slade to snap his head upwards. Despite the growing unease in his gut, he fought to maintain his composure. He couldn't be certain if the source of the noise was his captor or someone else entirely.

"Who's there?" Slade's voice rang out, his narrowed eyes betraying his pain. It was a struggle to maintain an air of toughness when his ribs throbbed mercilessly. Clearly, whoever had taken him captive had little regard for his well-being. "If you're attempting to conceal yourself, I must say, you're doing a pitiful job," Slade muttered quietly, his words laced with a mix of defiance and frustration.