Slade stared at the file for a full five seconds longer than necessary.

He flipped the page.

Read it again.

Then once more, slower.

“…You’re kidding.”

He looked up at the handler on the secure video line, unimpressed.

“Repeat that.”

A pause.

His eye twitched—barely.

“A cruise.”

Another pause.

“Family-oriented.”

Longer pause.

He closed the file.

“No.”

The handler kept talking.

Slade pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You’re telling me,” he said slowly, dangerously calm, “that a high-value target laundering international funds decided the safest place to hide is on a floating theme park.”

The handler confirmed.

He leaned back in his chair.

“…With mascots.”

Silence on the other end.

He exhaled sharply.

“Let me get this straight. I have to board a ship filled with screaming children, buffet lines, and choreographed musical numbers—”

He flipped to the itinerary page.

“—because this idiot thinks no one would attempt a hit between fireworks shows.”

Another beat.

He stared at the promotional image clipped to the file.

Bright blue ocean. Smiling cartoon characters. Confetti.

Slade’s jaw tightened.

“You understand,” he said flatly, “that blending in means I have to look like I voluntarily chose to be there.”

The handler mentioned civilian attire.

He looked personally offended.

“I don’t do shorts.”

More silence.

Slade stood, grabbing his gear bag with irritation.

“If I see one oversized mouse head,” he muttered darkly, “this contract is doubling.”

He paused at the door.

“…Cabin number?”

The handler gave it.

He nodded once.

“Fine.”

A beat.

“But if this turns into karaoke night,” he added coldly, “someone’s going overboard.”

Because Slade had handled dictators, metahumans, and black-ops disasters.

But a Disney cruise?

That felt personal.