The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and stubbornness.

Slade stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, unimpressed.

She was pale. Hooked to monitors. Stitches still fresh beneath the gown.

And still glaring at the tablet propped against her knees.

The live drone feed flickered on the screen—target compound, east entrance, rotating guard pattern.

“Good,” Slade said evenly. “They shifted patrol.”

A nurse had tried to tell her to rest.

Slade had politely escorted the nurse out.

He stepped closer, adjusting the angle of the tablet so the glare from the fluorescent lights wouldn’t interfere.

“You can sit up?” he asked.

She did.

“Then you can aim.”

He placed the lightweight controller in her hands, fingers closing around it with muscle memory that didn’t care about IV lines.

“It doesn’t matter where you are,” he continued, voice calm, almost instructional. “Hospital bed. Safehouse. Rooftop.”

His single eye flicked to the screen.

“Target is still target.”

A guard crossed into view.

He watched her breathing steady despite the monitors beeping in soft protest.

“There,” he said quietly.

The shot—remote, precise—landed exactly where it needed to.

Slade nodded once.

“Pain doesn’t change capability,” he added, not unkind. “It just changes position.”

He adjusted her pillow without comment, making sure she didn’t strain her stitches.

“You recover,” he said. “We adapt.”

Because for Slade, strength wasn’t about pretending you weren’t hurt.

It was about knowing you could still aim.