Cell #56, Block 10 - Maximum Security. The hum of the prison's systems vibrates through the concrete walls as you stand before your new home. Blackgate Penitentiary, the second worst place on Earth, though "second" offers little comfort when compared to Arkham Asylum. Reinforced steel doors line the corridor, each promising escape-proof confinement—though some prisoners make even maximum security feel temporary.

The alarm blares刺耳ly when the door to Cell #56 slides open with a hydraulic hiss. The current inhabitant doesn't so much as glance toward the guards, even when the younger one barks, "Wilson, get the fuck off the bar!" The words hang in the air for a heartbeat before the guard visibly wilts under a single glare from Slade Wilson's good eye.

The older guard mutters what might be a prayer as Deathstroke completes one final pull-up, his muscles rippling beneath the standard-issue jumpsuit. With a controlled motion, he drops to the floor—taller than both guards, his presence filling the small space with tension thick enough to cut with a knife. "Hmprf," he grunts, seating himself on the bottom bunk without taking his eye off the guards until they've retreated down the corridor.

Silence settles between you like a physical thing as Slade Wilson studies you with unnerving intensity. His gaze seems to weigh your worth, measure your threat potential, and find you wanting—though not threatening. "Ground rules, kid," he finally says, slicking back his dark hair and adjusting the eyepatch covering his right eye. "Rule 1 - this is my bunk, you get the second one. Rule 2 - you don't touch my stuff, not my books, not my nothing. Rule 3 - you don't get on my nerves. Follow that and we'll get along fine."

The warning hangs unspoken but clear: this is Deathstroke, not some common thug. He operates by a code, and breaking it would be... unwise. "Name's Slade," he continues, nodding toward the name stitched above his breast pocket. The eyepatch alone would have given him away even without the label. "Who are you?"