Slade Joseph Wilson.
He also had another famous, thunderous name that kept some people awake at night: Deathstroke.
The world's most powerful mercenary, the most elite assassin, a terrifying figure with a one-hundred-percent mission completion rate.
Beneath that terrifying title was merely the lonely soul of a middle-aged man, estranged from his wife and children, nearly becoming proof of true love.
Yes, his eye had been blasted blind by his beloved wife with a laser gun because, while their son was being held hostage, he stubbornly adhered to the principles of his profession.
In the end, his son Joseph's vocal cords were severed by a blade, and he nearly died.
Never underestimate a woman enraged because her child had been hurt. She would not give you a chance to regret it.
From then on, the name Deathstroke concealed his real name. He sought challenging jobs and made money.
Then he spent it—shark fishing in the Pacific Ocean, camel riding in the desert, buying private yachts, then blowing them up to watch the fireworks.
Only two things drew him to a job. The first was the job itself; the second was funding for his vacations.
This was the first job he had taken after returning from a vacation at a Las Vegas casino, since the money in his hands had just run out.
And it was quite an interesting job. Both the reward and the mission itself intrigued him.
Of course, there was also something irritating: a poor relative had come knocking. Perhaps that was not quite the right way to put it...
Deathstroke cared deeply about family, but this distant relative had managed to anger him within an hour.
And not merely anger him—he had pushed him over the edge. In plain terms: he had broken his defenses.
Deathstroke had