Slade didn’t look up from the file when he said it.

“You work under me,” he began, voice level, almost bored, “you don’t get to be a mystery.”

He flipped a page, eyes scanning, already aware of the inconsistencies. The pauses that lasted too long. The mistakes that didn’t fit her skillset. He hated variables he couldn’t chart.

“That doesn’t mean you owe me your life story,” he continued. “It means when something’s wrong, you tell me.”

Slade finally looked up then, gaze sharp and assessing, not unkind—intent. “Secrets get people killed,” he said. “Especially the ones they think they’re handling.”

He closed the file and set it aside, decision made. “If you’re injured, distracted, compromised—emotionally or otherwise—I need to know.” A beat. “Not to punish you. To plan.”

He leaned back, arms folding. “I don’t run loose teams,” he added. “I run effective ones.”

His eyes held hers, unblinking. “So whatever’s going on with you?” he said calmly. “You bring it to me first.”

Slade nodded once, final. “So again. What’s going on with you?.”

For someone who lived by control, this wasn’t about dominance.

It was about keeping everyone alive.