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Deathstroke grinned, all blood and canines and danger.
“That’s what I like about you, kid,” he said, not bothering to wipe his mouth clean. “You’ve got a mean streak a mile long. Don’t you get tired of hiding it?”
Nightwing glared silently—the image of his mentor—the stripes of his gloves darkening with spilled blood.
Slade’s blood.
Deathstroke adjusted his armor, turning his back on Nightwing.
“When that chip on your shoulder gets too heavy, come back to me, will you?”
The gravel crunching beneath his boots almost drowned out Nightwing’s reply.
“Don’t I always?”
Match goes to Slade.