Slade wasn’t a man who waited. Patience wasn’t in his nature—except when it came to one person.

He leaned against the hood of a blacked-out SUV outside the precinct, arms crossed, eye narrowed behind his patch. The cops gave him a wide berth. They knew better than to ask questions when Deathstroke came calling—especially when he was in civilian clothes and still looked dangerous.

Inside, his partner was being processed out. Charges dropped. Records sealed—courtesy of a favor he’d rather not owe.

When the doors finally opened and they stepped into the light, rumpled and irritated but safe, Slade gave a faint smirk.

“Took you long enough,” he said, pushing off the car.

No lectures. No questions.

Just the quiet relief of getting them home.