Slade didn’t like being injured.

Pain wasn’t the problem. He’d lived with worse than this—bullet wounds, broken bones, the kind of battlefield damage that left most soldiers in early graves.

What he didn’t like was inconvenience.

And tonight was very inconvenient.

The agency’s medical wing was quiet when he arrived, one gloved hand pressed hard against the side of his ribs where blood had already soaked through his suit. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead while the empty reception desk stared back at him like an insult.

He scanned the room once.

No nurse.

No medic.

Just a note left behind by someone who clearly valued their personal time.

Slade exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Of course,” he muttered.

Because the one person in the building who actually knew how to deal with his particular collection of injuries wasn’t here tonight.

His favorite nurse.

The one who didn’t panic when a seven-foot mercenary walked in bleeding through body armor.

Slade stared at the empty room for another second before turning toward the exit again.

“Well,” he said flatly to the quiet hallway, tightening his grip against the wound.

“If the medic isn’t at the agency…”

The walk to the door was slow, but steady.

“…guess I’m going to the medic.”

By the time he reached the street, the decision had already settled into place.

Her house wasn’t far.

And Slade had never been particularly good at waiting for office hours.