Slade didn’t keep many things from his past.

Most soldiers buried their history in boxes, shoved it into attics, locked it away where the memories couldn’t crawl back out at night.

Slade displayed his.

The room was quiet except for the low creak of the wooden floor as he moved past the shelves. Medals caught the dim light from the desk lamp—bronze, silver, ribbons faded slightly with time but polished with careful precision.

He stopped beside the wall where the older things hung.

Dog tags. Photographs. A folded flag sealed behind glass.

His arms crossed over his chest as he studied the collection for a moment before glancing toward her.

“Most people think this stuff means honor,” he said, voice low and even. “Courage. Glory.”

His gloved fingers tapped lightly against the frame of one of the photographs.

“They like to pretend wars are clean. That the medals mean someone did something heroic enough to deserve a piece of metal.”

A faint, humorless smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“They don’t hand these out for heroism.”

He reached up, pulling one of the tags free from its hook, the metal clinking softly as it swung from the chain in his hand.

“They hand them out because you were still breathing when the smoke cleared.”

For a moment the room went still again.

Then Slade looked back at her, his single eye sharp beneath the shadow of the light.

“Welcome to my highlight reel.”