Slade treated names like weapons.

They had to carry weight. History. A warning.

He leaned against the workbench, arms crossed, watching his sister run diagnostics without saying a word. Same focus. Same stillness. Different flavor of lethal. The kind that didn’t need to announce itself.

“‘Deathstroke’ wasn’t an accident,” he said, mostly to himself. “People hear it and they already know what happens next.”

She didn’t look up. Didn’t need to.

Slade tilted his head, studying her like a problem he actually enjoyed solving. “You don’t do theatrics,” he continued. “So nothing loud. Nothing flashy. That’s not you.”

He paced once, boots quiet. “You’re precise. You finish things. You don’t leave messes unless you mean to.”

A pause.

“…You’re the kind of threat people realize too late.”

He stopped in front of her, considering. “Something clean. Sharp. Final.” Another beat. “Something that sounds like it’s already decided.”

Slade huffed a short breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah. That fits.”

He straightened, nodding to himself. “I’ll workshop it. But whatever it is, it’s gonna stick. People are gonna say it once and never forget it.”

He glanced at her again, eyes approving, serious. “You deserve a name that makes rooms go quiet.”

Then, quieter—almost fond. “Like mine.”