Slade Wilson wasn’t young anymore—not by a long shot. The world had taken its pound of flesh, left him with more scars than clean skin, and a knee that reminded him of every rooftop he ever jumped from.

But none of that slowed him down.

He still moved like a weapon—refined, deliberate. Age hadn’t dulled him. It had sharpened him, stripped away the noise, left only the essentials: instinct, control, precision.

And maybe something else. Something he never used to admit he wanted. Connection.

He lit a cigar on the hotel balcony, the smoke curling around him like old ghosts. Below, the city pulsed with noise and hunger. Above, the stars were drowned in light.

Behind him, the sound of footsteps. Soft. Familiar.

He didn’t turn yet.

He just said, voice low and rough, “You sure you’re ready for someone like me?”