Slade caught his reflection in the darkened window and didn’t flinch.

“Funny thing,” he said quietly, more to the room than to her, “everyone thinks I take after him.”

He shifted, setting his gear aside with care—slow, deliberate, controlled. No slamming. No sharp movements. “They see the violence. The discipline. The way I don’t hesitate.” A pause. “They stop there.”

He glanced toward her chair, softened his voice without meaning to. “They don’t see where the rest came from.”

Slade picked up a broken clock from the shelf, turning it over in his hands. “I fix things because you did. I watch exits because you taught me to. I listen first.” A small huff. “He never did.”

He set the clock down, straightened it, made sure it sat level. “I don’t raise my voice,” he continued. “I don’t break what I don’t have to. I don’t confuse fear with respect.” Another pause, heavier. “That was all him.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes unfocused now. “You kept going. Quiet. Steady. Took hits and still chose kindness when you could’ve gone mean.” His jaw tightened. “That’s not weakness. That’s discipline.”

Slade looked back at the window, then away. “If I’m dangerous,” he said, calm and certain, “it’s because I learned control from you. Not cruelty from him.”

He stepped closer, lowered his voice like a promise. “So no. I’m not his legacy.”

A beat.

“I’m yours.”