Knock.
The sharp rap against the door cut through the silence of the dimly lit room.
"Come in."
The reply was immediate, smooth, and devoid of hesitation. The voice carried the weight of authority, a tone that brooked no argument.
The man on the other side twisted the doorknob, pushing the door open with a slow creak. The hinges groaned in protest, as if reluctant to admit him. The air inside was thick with the scent of aged wood, polished leather, and the faint metallic tang of weapon oil.
A single desk lamp cast long shadows across the room, its golden glow barely reaching the corners where darkness clung stubbornly.
Slade Wilson—Deathstroke—stood with his back turned, his broad frame silhouetted against the flickering light. His posture was rigid, his stance that of a man who had long since mastered the art of patience.
"I've got to say, boss," the man began, stepping inside and letting the door click shut behind him, "the rate at which we keep changing our base is starting to get disturbing." His voice was laced with dry amusement, but beneath it was an undercurrent of genuine concern.
Slade didn't turn immediately. Instead, he exhaled, a slow, measured breath that spoke of controlled irritation. "This change of location was necessary." His words were clipped, final.
"Yeah, yeah, I get it," the man—Jones—replied, striding forward without waiting for an invitation. He dragged a chair from the side of the room, its legs scraping against the hardwood floor, and dropped into it with a sigh.
"But a little heads-up would've been nice. I was already halfway to the old base when I got the message." He leaned back, crossing his arms. "Imagine walking into an ambush just 'cause the intel was late. Sheesh."
Finally, Slade turned. The dim light caught the black eyepatch stretched over his right eye, the leather stark against his scarred face.
His remaining eye—sharp, calculating—locked onto Jones with an intensity that made the air between them feel heavier.
"Come on, Jones," Slade said, his voice a low rumble. "You and I both know you can handle yourself." He moved with deliberate steps toward a small oak cabinet in the corner, its surface dusted but well-maintained.
Jones smirked, though his gaze lingered on the eyepatch. "Love the new look, by the way. Gotta say, it's a bold statement."
Slade pulled open a drawer, retrieving a bottle of amber whiskey and two crystal glasses. "It isn't for fashion."
"Didn't figure it was," Jones admitted, watching as Slade poured the liquor. The liquid caught the light, glowing like molten gold. "But in our line of work, it does make you look all… dangerous and murdery." He reached out, accepting the offered glass with a nod of thanks.
Slade's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something close. "The old man didn't go down without leaving his mark." Jones teased as he swirled the whiskey, studying its slow crawl down the sides of the glass.
"Ra's al Ghul, huh?" He took a sip, relishing the burn. "Figured as much. Hard to imagine anyone else over there who could've done that to you."
Slade's expression darkened. "Ra's wasn't the one who took my eye."
Jones froze mid-sip, his brow furrowing. "What?" He lowered the glass. "You're telling me there was someone else in that hellhole who could pull that off?"
Slade said nothing, choosing instead to take a slow drink. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken implications.
Jones exhaled sharply, leaning forward. "Alright, fine. Keep your secrets." He waved a hand dismissively. "How'd the mission go, then? Aside from the… unexpected accessory."
Slade's grip tightened slightly around his glass. "Everything went according to plan—until the end."
"Until?"
"Ra's was already finished. Burned, broken. I had him beneath my boot, blade at his throat." Slade's voice was eerily calm, but Jones could hear the undercurrent of frustration. "I wanted him to see it coming. To know it was me."
Jones nodded slowly. He knew the history—the betrayal, the exile. Slade had waited years for this moment.
"And?" he pressed.
Slade's jaw tightened. "I was interrupted."
Jones blinked. "By who? Talia?"
"No. She was occupied, just as planned." Slade set his glass down with deliberate care. "This was someone else."
Jones waited, sensing the reluctance in his boss's posture.
Slade exhaled through his nose. "A kid."
Jones choked on his whiskey. "A what?"
Slade's eye narrowed. "You heard me."
Jones wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, staring. "You're telling me some teenage brat got the drop on you?"
Slade's silence was answer enough.
Jones let out a low whistle. "Damn. Now I gotta hear this."
Slade leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. "He wasn't just some kid. He moved like a trained killer—raw, but skilled."
"League-raised?"
"No." Slade's voice was firm. "His style was different. Unrefined, but… adaptable. Instinctive."
Jones frowned. "You sound almost impressed."
Slade's eye gleamed. "He fought like he had nothing to lose."
Jones mulled that over. "And the eye?"
Slade's fingers brushed the edge of the patch. "He trapped me. Just for a second. That was all he needed."
Jones exhaled sharply. "So what now? We hunting this kid down?"
Slade's expression hardened. "No. He's not the priority." He reached into his coat, withdrawing a folded piece of parchment covered in cryptic symbols. "This is."
Jones studied the markings. "Still no luck deciphering it?"
"None." Slade's voice was grim. "Which means we need someone who can."
"Who?"
Slade's lips curled into something cold. "Talia al Ghul."
Jones groaned. "Oh, come on. After what you did to her old man?"
Slade's gaze was unreadable. "She'll talk. One way or another."
Jones shook his head, then paused. "Wait—before we go charging into that mess, what's this even for?" He gestured to the parchment. "What info did you need from the stolen artifact? What's the endgame here?"
Slade was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he spoke.
"Ever heard of the Mirakuru serum?"
The name hung in the air like a promise—or a threat.
Jones's glass froze halfway to his lips.
And just like that, the atmosphere tensed up.
- - -
The winds howled like vengeful spirits across the jagged peaks of the hidden mountain, their mournful cries echoing through the stone corridors of the League's new stronghold.
The air was thin here, laced with the crisp bite of altitude, and the scent of burning incense clung to the walls—sandalwood and myrrh, the traditional offerings for the dead.
Talia al Ghul stood at the edge of the fortress's highest balcony, her fingers curled around the railing, her knuckles pale with tension. Below her, the world stretched out in an endless sea of mist and rock, a kingdom of shadows now hers to command.
A week had passed since her father's murder.
A week since Slade Wilson had defiled the sanctity of the Lazarus Pit, turning what should have been a place of rebirth into a tomb.
She had sealed the cavern herself, pressing her palm against the ancient stone doors as they groaned shut, sealing Ra's al Ghul's scorched remains within. No rites. No final words. Just ash and silence.
The dishonor of it burned in her chest like a brand.
Her father—the Demon's Head, the man who had shaped empires and outlived dynasties—had been denied a warrior's death. Instead, he had fallen to treachery, to explosives and ambushes, to the cowardice of a man who had once been his most trusted blade.
Slade would pay for that.
The League had abandoned the old base, retreating to a secondary stronghold—one of many her father had prepared for exactly this scenario.
Nestled deep within the Himalayas, this fortress was a labyrinth of black stone and hidden passages, its defenses refined over centuries.
Motion-sensitive traps lined the halls, and every entrance was guarded by loyal shadows who had sworn their lives to the Demon's Head—now to her.
Talia had ensured Damian was far from this war. She had left him with his father, Bruce Wayne, in Gotham. The boy would be safe there, far from the bloodshed to come.
As for the rest of the League?
They were hers now.
Her first decree had been simple: Find Slade Wilson.
A dozen assassins had already been dispatched, their orders clear—track him, but do not engage. Not yet. She would take his head herself.
What Talia did not know was that Slade was hunting her just as fiercely.
He needed her alive.
The artifact—a relic of unknown power, its surface etched with indecipherable symbols—remained a mystery. Slade had expected Ra's to die without revealing its secrets; the old man had been too stubborn, too prideful to break under torture.
But Talia?
She was different.
If she knew how to decode the artifact, she would crack. Eventually.
As for Jason, Talia had given him a choice: stay and fight under her banner, or leave and find his own path.
Ra's had brought him into the League for reasons he had never shared with her. Some grand design, some purpose Jason was meant to fulfill. But with her father gone, those plans were lost to the winds.
Jason was skilled—brutally so—but Talia had no use for ghosts of her father's schemes.
Before their paths diverged, he had returned the artifact to her.
"It belonged to him," he had said, his voice rough with something between respect and resentment. "Now it belongs to you."
Talia had turned the relic over in her hands, studying the strange markings. She had no idea what it meant, what power it held. To her, it was just another piece of her father's legacy—one she had no interest in unraveling.
So she had given it back.
"Keep it," she had told him. "A memento. Of the man who was your teacher."
Jason had accepted it without a word, tucking it away before vanishing into the night.
Now, as Talia stood alone in the dim light of the fortress, the weight of her new title settled upon her shoulders.
Ra's al Ghul was dead.
Slade Wilson had declared war.
And somewhere in an unknown destination, an ancient power lay dormant, its secrets waiting to be unlocked.
The game had only just begun.