𝔻eathstroke

You have no idea who I am. 𝙊𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪.

❝It reminded me of that one time my father sent my brothers to kill me, but he already knew they were no match for me. He only wanted to get my attention.❞

“ My restraint takes way more ‘power’ than it does to pull a trigger and kill someone. Knowing you are capable of harm, of killing someone, and refusing that’s real strength, and it’s for my sake. Not yours. But I’ll tell you I’m thinking about it. “ he grumbled at the end

"You harm Gar and I promise the last thing you'll remember is my appearance before you're a pawn within your own body."

"They made me a better person. Without them id be a shut in mute with no social skills.'

"They're more family than you've ever been."

"Leave my family alone."

“ I’m not panicked. I’m going to put you in the ground if you show up. I was warning your kids. You’re welcome. “

You never change. Imagine getting bored without bloodshed. Sick.

Zuyev Olegovich had the night of his life. He was part of the Vory v Zakone, royalty within the Russian Mafia, and tonight had called for a celebration. After a brutal civil war, his faction had emerged victorious. Climbing over the bodies of the fallen, Zuyev had become a key figure of the Russian underworld. All roads would now lead through him. Everything had worked out in the end. "Ladies! Ladies! Haha! There's plenty more time tonight...let me just get my keys...oh! Easy with the hands! You two don't go far now...hehehe..." He was three sheets to the wind as he stumbled into his office in St. Petersburg. "Let me just get my keys..." He nearly tripped over his dress shoes as he walked to his desk. He slouched into his chair, opening the drawer as he fished for the car keys that his vision would not reveal to him. He couldn't find them. They weren't their usual spot- which was odd...they were there just hours ago. Suddenly, Zuyev's eyes widened, his irises like beady coals as they shrunk with fear, his mouth open as he felt himself sobering up by the second. "I see..." He sat back in the chair, a deep sigh escaping him as he brushed back his wisps of hair. "Hello, Slade," he murmured, almost as if addressing an old friend. "Zuyev," the darkness spoke back to him, recalling him also as an old friend. "I should have seen this coming. Of course they'd send you after me. Anything to keep the status quo. Even if means burning everything down with it." "You know how business goes. Once you climb to the top, everyone will try knocking you down." The darkness gave shape as a figure emerged from the corner of the damp office, an orange and black mask, a singular eye peering from it. "For what it's worth, I didn't accept the initial offer." Zuyev laughed dryly, reaching down to withdrawal a bottle of vodka and two glasses. He filled them both without delay. "I suppose that is flattering, coming from a man like you. A man who only knows death. What was the name of that Мудак I paid you to take care of years ago...that annoying 𝙥𝙞𝙯𝙙𝙖 with the lisp?" "Shubin," Slade answered, taking the glass offered to him. "Shubin! That's right...that's right. Back when that prick was the worst of my troubles. When times were simple and men could be men. What happened to those times, Slade?" Zuyev offered the glass up to clink against Slade's. "I don't think it's the times that have changed." He answered, peeling up his mask just enough to down the vodka. The glass was placed back on the table with an empty clink. "We've just gotten old. We've changed." Zuyev snorted, shaking his head. "I do not think you have changed a 𝙗𝙞𝙩, Slade." "We really should get on with this." "Right, right..." Zuyev went to retie his necktie and straighten out his suit. "Those girls, Slade, those girls outside...they're sweet. Please don't hurt-" "Who do you think paid for them, Zuyev?" Slade replied. "Ha! I should have known." He wagged his finger and shook his head, acting as if he wasn't facing the bitter end. "Slade Wilson...𝘿𝙀𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙎𝙏𝙍𝙊𝙆𝙀, The Terminator...just how many names do you have by this point?" Zuyev went without the glass this time and took several heavy swigs of vodka from the bottle itself. Slade didn't deign to reply, he knew Zuyev was merely stalling. And Zuyev knew, too. He sighed one last time, sitting straight at his desk, arms resting over the mahogany. "How do you want to do this?" "Quickly." And before the mobster could reply with anything, a bullet had penetrated his skull, sending him flying back into his chair and crashing against the floor. "Ladies." Slade approached the two women waiting outside the office, both with expecting looks on their faces. "Tell Moiseyev the job is done." He replied, a noticeable shift in his tone present. "And tell him Zuyev did not die like a coward."