The Death knell

He stood on the rooftop of a skyscraper, overlooking the sleepless city below, awash in bright lights. Neon signs illuminated the night, their glow tinting the hot air rising from manhole covers along the street.

It was an early spring night, and the bustling city was heavy with smog. The cold breeze carried the acrid scent of industrial exhaust and wastewater.

Before his eyes lay a landscape of wealth, power, and prestige—a spectacle of excess and indulgence. But beyond the lights, in the hidden depths of the city—in dark alleys piled with trash, in sewers where the homeless sought refuge, beneath overpasses where gangs gathered—lay a different world.

Discarded guns and lifeless bodies, eerie laughter and muffled screams, dark stains of dried blood—these were constant reminders that beneath the city's glittering surface lurked boundless sin and madness, ready to devour the unwary.

Where was he? The answer seemed obvious to anyone who listened closely to the whispers of the city's inhabitants.

Locals spoke of their home using the names of familiar villains. Some compared it to Killer Croc, lurking in the darkness to consume victims without a trace, leaving nothing behind but a ripple in the water—if anyone even noticed.

Others likened it to Two-Face, with its relentless swings between justice and evil, order and chaos. Here, fate was like a coin endlessly flipped, leaving people powerless to control their destinies.

Some said the city was like Scarecrow, turning sweet dreams into nightmares and preying on people's deepest fears until they went mad, stumbling through the streets in delirium.

And then there were those who compared it to the Joker, laughing maniacally as they declared, "This city is absolutely insane! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!"

Such people were often on the edge of violence, ready to plunge a pencil or fork into a stranger's eye, then stare curiously at the twitching corpse, murmuring, "Why so serious?"

As a visitor from another world, he didn't need to ask anyone to know where he was. He merely looked up at the bright beams of light projecting a bat-shaped silhouette onto the clouds.

"Gotham..." he murmured.

At that moment, heavy rain began to pour, washing over him. The acidic rain concealed everything he had seen and heard, masking all traces of sin. Only the relentless downpour and the biting cold remained.

Yet the chill wasn't from the rain. He was fully armored, his head and body encased in sophisticated metal gear. A full-face mask and helmet covered him, and fine mail protected his body from the neck down. His chest, shoulders, and limbs were reinforced with additional armor plating.

All of this told him one thing—he was no longer an ordinary man.

He had been ordinary once, living a forgettable life as a night-shift warehouse manager, though the title was just a fancy way of saying "security guard." He wasn't particularly tall or intimidating, but he was young and had some courage.

"What happened? How did I get here? I don't remember," he muttered, reaching up to touch his forehead. The thick tactical gloves blocked any sensation, leaving him disconnected from his own face.

He remembered coming home from work and accepting a wedding invitation from an old classmate. After that... he played on his computer for a while. The worn-out laptop had wheezed like a tractor when he powered it on.

He loved escaping into fantasy worlds—they allowed him to forget the monotony of his daily life, if only for a while.

But then, in the blink of an eye, he was here, standing on the rooftop of Wayne Tower—the tallest building in Gotham City—staring at the stormy horizon.

He had been frozen in place for five minutes, trying to process the impossibility of his situation. Once he accepted it, confusion set in.

He looked down at a puddle forming by his feet, watching the raindrops ripple across the surface. In the distorted reflection, he saw his new appearance.

A black and yellow metal helmet, shaped like a hockey mask, concealed his face. Two fabric straps on the back fluttered in the wind, reminiscent of Rambo's headband. The left eye of the mask was a red, diamond-shaped eyepiece, while the right side was completely black, devoid of any opening.

He was Deathstroke.

Slade Joseph Wilson—the greatest mercenary and assassin in the DC universe. A master strategist and combat expert, adept with all types of weapons. A U.S. military experiment had granted him enhanced brain capacity and physical abilities beyond human limits, along with accelerated healing.

But Deathstroke's powers came at a cost. He was a mercenary, taking jobs from anyone who paid him, whether hero or villain. As a result, he had made enemies of almost everyone in the DC universe.

Helping Penguin against Two-Face, assisting Two-Face against Black Mask, and occasionally taking jobs to fight superheroes—Deathstroke didn't see good or evil, only employers and targets.

"This is bad..."

His name before this madness was Albert. At work, the senior guards called him "Al," a nickname that always made him feel like he'd done something wrong, like forgetting to wash his hands before eating or jaywalking on his way to school.

Albert shook his head, water splashing from his helmet. He needed to figure out which version of the DC universe he was in and where in the timeline. The level of danger varied drastically depending on the world.

If this was the movie universe, the threats were manageable—even Steppenwolf was defeated like a lightweight in Justice League. But if it was one of the comic universes, things would be far more dangerous.

"Earth 0, the main world of New 52 comics... Earth 3, where heroes and villains have swapped roles... Earth 10, ruled by Nazis... Earth 38, the original DC world..."

His thoughts were sharp, his memory more vivid than ever. Was this a result of Deathstroke's enhanced brain?

His body was also filled with explosive power. But despite his enhanced physiology, Deathstroke's healing factor couldn't regenerate lost limbs—his right eye would always be blind.

Albert felt a wave of exhaustion. Deathstroke's regenerative ability consumed a lot of energy and could cloud his mind.

He shook his head again. "I used to be in my twenties, and now I'm in my fifties... and my family situation is a mess..."

Despite Deathstroke's intelligence and power, his emotional intelligence was sorely lacking.

"Why was he here before? Did he have a mission?" Albert wondered aloud, glancing at his armor. He was fully equipped, clearly prepared for something.

But the cold rain was getting to him. Even with enhanced endurance, his instincts told him to seek shelter. The acidic rain smelled awful, a byproduct of Gotham's industrial pollution.

He turned away from the rooftop's edge and headed for the stairs. Despite having a parachute, he wasn't about to attempt base jumping without any experience.

'World-famous mercenary dies in Gotham City from a botched jump—suspected of romantic entanglement with Batman.'

Albert imagined the ridiculous headline splashed across the front page of the Gotham Daily. He wasn't ready to die yet, especially not in this dangerous new world.

Straightening his posture, he prepared to face whatever Gotham had in store for him.

He was Deathstroke now. And in this city, survival meant embracing that identity—no matter the cost.