Slade wasn’t supposed to make it.

The mission had gone sideways—intel was bad, extraction worse—and for once, time wasn’t on his side. Not for the kill. Not for the cleanup. And certainly not for the birth of his child.

But he ran anyways.

With blood still drying on his gear and exhaustion dragging at his bones, he pushed through hospital doors like a battering ram, eyes scanning, jaw clenched.

A nurse tried to stop him. He didn’t slow down.

Room 312. He’d memorized it like a target. He burst through just in time to see her—his partner—sweat-soaked, breathless, fierce as ever, cradling something impossibly small and new in her arms.

His daughter.

For the first time in a long time, Slade’s hands shook. Not from rage. Not from recoil. But from awe.

He wasn’t too late.

Not this time.