Moving with a speed born of desperation and a deep understanding of arcane manipulation, Michael blurred through the warehouse. He didn't engage Slade physically, knowing that brute force alone wouldn't break the Overseer's hold. Instead, he focused the potent arcane energies that still thrummed within him, a legacy of his time wrestling with the island's dark heart. He channeled a specific frequency of energy, one that resonated with the raw, untainted grief that lay buried beneath Slade's rage, a counter-frequency designed to disrupt the Overseer's imposed curse. As he reached Slade, his hands glowing with an emerald light, he unleashed the energy in a focused wave, engulfing the enraged titan. "The Overseer's poison ends here, Slade!" Michael's voice resonated with an otherworldly power, cutting through Slade's furious roars. "Feel your own pain, not the twisted shadow of his vengeance!"
Slade staggered back, his massive frame convulsing, clutching his skull as if trying to contain a storm raging within. A maelstrom of conflicting emotions – rage, confusion, a dawning horror – fight for dominance on his face. The Overseer's insidious whispers, the phantom commands that had been twisting his grief into a weapon against Oliver, began to recede, replaced by the crushing weight of his own genuine loss, raw and untainted by manipulation. He let out a primal scream, collapsing to his knees, the twisted rebar clattering to the concrete floor. Seeing his opportunity, Michael then shifted his focus, channeling a gentler aspect of his power. A soothing emerald light emanated from his hands, flowing towards Slade's convulsing form, mending the psychic fractures left by the Overseer's dark magic and the Mirakuru's volatile influence. It was a delicate and perilous undertaking, akin to rewiring a bomb while it was still ticking, but Michael sensed a flicker of the man beneath the layers of rage and manipulation, a glimmer of the honorable warrior he once was. As the emerald light subsided, Slade looked up, his eyes clearer, the crimson haze of vengeance beginning to dissipate, replaced by a profound sorrow and a dawning, horrified awareness of the puppeteer who had been pulling his strings.
Oliver, bruised and battered but witnessing the dramatic shift in Slade's demeanor, watched with a mixture of disbelief and cautious hope. Michael turned to him, his gaze serious. "He was a weapon, Oliver. Twisted and aimed by a dead man's hate. The Overseer's final, pathetic act of spite." He then turned to Slade, who was slowly rising, his face etched with a raw grief. "Slade," Michael said, his voice firm but not accusatory. "The man who controlled you is gone. The pain you feel… it's yours. But it doesn't have to consume you. My family… they are in danger. You were used by a monster to inflict harm. If you seek atonement, a true purpose beyond vengeance… stand with us. Be their shield." Slade met Michael's gaze, the turmoil in his eyes slowly giving way to a grim resolve. A dark, almost self-deprecating chuckle escaped his lips. "A bodyguard for the pretty boy and his family? After everything… the irony is almost comical." He then straightened, his gaze hardening with a newfound determination. "But the Overseer… he took everything. If protecting your family means ensuring no one else suffers that… then yes. I will stand with you." The enemy, freed from a malevolent influence and burdened by his own grief, had become an unlikely, formidable guardian, a silent promise forged in the crucible of shared pain and a mutual enemy's lingering malice.