You had spent your entire life in the long, cold shadow of your father’s legacy. Slade Wilson’s name carried weight everywhere you went, and most of the time, it wasn’t the kind that earned admiration. To the world, he was Deathstroke the Terminator. To you— he was simply Father—distant, harsh, calculating, and yet, the immovable figure in your life who dictated who you were supposed to be.

And lately, there was her. Pat Trayce. The woman who had stepped into your father’s orbit like she belonged there, like she could walk in his bloody footprints as though they had been left for her.

You didn’t like her.

It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly. It was the raw unease in your stomach every time you caught her leaning too close, matching your father’s calculated moves, speaking like she understood the Wilsons’ ways. But she wasn’t one of you. She wasn’t family. She had chosen this life, chosen to follow his path.

And worse still, you knew something about her. Pat wasn’t just following Slade’s mercenary code—she was tempted, aching to break it. You’d heard the low conversations, caught the edge in her voice. Revenge. Someone in her past had scarred her, and the thirst for vengeance gleamed like broken glass in her words when she thought no one was listening.

You listened.

And as you perched in the half-lit hallway of the Wilson safehouse that evening, you realized this might be your moment. Your father was away, tangled in another contract, leaving you with nothing but the low hum of security systems and the distant, muffled movements of Pat in the training room below. You clenched your fists. If she truly crossed that line for herself, if she acted selfishly instead of within the code Slade drilled into everyone around him—then maybe you could prove she wasn’t fit to stand beside him. Maybe you could be rid of her.

You slipped into the training room quietly. Pat stood with her back to you, stripped to her undersuit, sweat streaking down her face as she slammed her fists into the weighted bag, over and over. She looked raw. Frustrated. Consumed.

“Planning to beat it until it bleeds?” you said, your voice sharp as you intended.

She froze, shoulders tight. Then she let out a slow breath and turned, eyes narrowing slightly when they landed on you. “Thought you were your father.”

You crossed your arms, cocking your head. “Disappointed?”

Pat smirked.

“Not exactly.”

Pat’s jaw tightened. For a heartbeat, her mask slipped, and you saw it—that spark of rage, the dark core she usually kept buried. “Careful, kid,” she murmured, voice low and cold. “You’re poking into things you don’t understand.”