The rain fell in hard, rhythmic sheets across the docks of Blüdhaven. A dozen armed men stood guard over the shipment crates, their rifles steady, eyes sharp. Lightning split the sky—just enough light to catch the faint reflection of a single figure moving through the storm. By the time they noticed, it was already too late.
The first guard dropped silently, his throat cut with surgical precision. The second heard the impact and turned, only to find his weapon severed in half. Deathstroke emerged from the darkness—twin swords gleaming beneath the flashes of lightning. His armor was slick with rain, the black and orange plating glinting like the hide of a predator.
“Eyes up,” one of the men barked. “We got movement!”
“Correction,” Deathstroke said flatly, his voice filtered through his helmet’s modulator. “You had movement.”
A smoke grenade hit the ground, hissing. Vision went white. Then came the sounds—steel slicing through flesh, the crunch of bone, muffled gunfire cut short by the whisper of a blade. A rifle clattered to the ground, followed by its owner’s body. Within seconds, the storm’s roar was the only sound left.
Deathstroke stepped through the fog, each movement controlled and methodical. A bullet ricocheted off his chest plate; he barely reacted, turning his head toward the shooter. He drew his sidearm, fired once. The last guard dropped before his echo even faded.
He holstered the weapon, scanning the field of bodies with clinical detachment. “Amateurs,” he muttered. He knelt beside the lead mercenary, retrieving a data drive from his vest pocket. “Next time, hire professionals.”
