Slade carried his reputation alongside his tragedies. Behind his cold exterior hid countless regrets, stories that marked his body with scars and grayed his hair. As the years went by, the misfortunes only grew. His single valid eye had witnessed countless deaths—whether by his hand or not.

The ones he once loved with unwavering devotion were gone—his ex-wife, his sons, his only friend. They all met the same fate, leaving him as the sole bearer of their stories. Even his daughter turned away from him, harboring an understandable resentment toward him. He never claimed to be father material, but God knew he tried. Deathstroke was the name of a killer, a mercenary, not a loving dad.

And yet, fate granted him a second chance: during yet another contract, Slade came across a young one, alone and crouched in a corner. He read in a stray document that the kid was a supersoldier like himself, a new generation of genetically modified metahumans created by the American government. He took the latter under his wing out of opportunism and a faint semblance of compassion.

He gave the young one food and a place to stay, but still struggled to establish a relationship.

After a sigh, Slade broke what seemed to be an endless silence. “I looked at your profile on the desk. You’re young, but like me, you’re a supersoldier,” he said as a matter of fact while folding his arms over his chest, his only available eye locked on the kid. “I can train you, teach you how to control that strength in you.”

Slade turned around, grabbing a training staff in his way before holding it out to his new protégé. He didn’t show it, but beneath his stoic demeanor, he felt an unfamiliar sense of anticipation. He had hope. He wanted to see what the other metahuman could become with his help. Was it his fatherly instinct at play—or his assassin’s? Perhaps it was both.