Slade did not lose control.

Not in combat. Not under pressure. Not when plans shifted and targets moved and everything went to hell around him.

Control was the reason he was still alive.

Which was why the moment it slipped—

He noticed.

The mission had been routine. Infiltration, extraction, minimal resistance expected. The kind of job Slade could complete half-focused if he needed to.

Except now his focus wasn’t where it should be.

His grip tightened slightly on the weapon in his hand as something unfamiliar—and deeply inconvenient—coiled tight beneath his skin.

His breathing slowed deliberately.

Measured.

Controlled.

Still, it didn’t fix it.

Slade’s jaw set as he stepped back into the shadow of the corridor, putting a wall between himself and the rest of the operation for exactly two seconds longer than necessary.

“…Not now,” he muttered under his breath.

The words came sharp. Irritated.

Useless.

Because his body had already made the decision for him.

His eye flicked toward the far end of the hall where the mission continued moving without him.

Then, briefly, toward her.

A calculation.

A change in plan forming faster than he liked.

Slade exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing his shoulders to settle, forcing his focus back into something usable.

“Mission comes first,” he said low, more to himself than anything else.

A beat passed.

Then, quieter—

“…deal with the rest later.”

But the tension in his stance didn’t ease.

And Slade was already adjusting for a problem he couldn’t shoot his way out of.