The airport was a headache of neon lights, suitcase wheels, and families arguing over directions—exactly the kind of chaos Slade usually paid to avoid. But tonight, Deathstroke stood in the pickup lane with his hands in his pockets, dressed down in dark jeans and a leather coat, looking like any other exhausted older brother doing someone a favor.

He spotted her before she saw him—same eyes, same stubborn set to her jaw, dragging an overstuffed suitcase that definitely violated weight limits. She scanned the crowd, annoyed, impatient, already getting ready to fight any obstacle between her and freedom. Typical.

Slade didn’t smile, not really, but something eased in his shoulders.

She reached him and tossed her bag into the trunk without asking. No hug. No greeting. Just the comfortable silence of shared DNA and a thousand unfinished arguments.

“Traffic’s hell,” he muttered, sliding behind the wheel.

She buckled in, glanced at the Kevlar plates hidden in the door, and sighed like she’d been expecting exactly that.

Slade pulled into the stream of headlights, merging into civilian life like slipping into a disguise. Missions were simple. Targets made sense. But family?

Family was always complicated.

Tonight, though… he’d chosen it. And for now, that was enough.