The phone rang and the bomb exploded and the next thing he knew flames were licking at his face and the pain drove him from the ruins of his safehouse, into the arms of the cops and firemen. He remembered their exclamations of shock at his survival, but couldn't see them, and all he could smell was burning flesh and hair.
The next thing he knew he was in a bed, chained, in pain, still blind. Soothing creams and bandages assisted by his accelerated healing did their job, and the scent of burning had faded.
The phone. The bome. Someone had tried to kill him.
He drifted away again.
When he came back to himself, the pain was bearable, and he could see again. A hospital room and a handcuff around each wrist and ankle chaining him to the metal frame of the bed. He could get out of them, but the burns still hurt, so he waited and thought about who might be behind the assassination attempt.
A few days later, able to sit up, the burns only red marks on his skin, a DEO officer handed him a telephone. "You have one phone call, Wilson."
Arrested. Well, he'd figured the handcuffs weren't to prevent him from hindering his healing, and the time he'd been given had allowed him to discern his assassin. With a smirk on his face and burning hatred in his heart, Slade dialed a number.
"Luthor, you're a dead man."
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