Slade didn’t do apologies. Not with words. Not with flowers, or letters, or standing in the rain like some lovesick fool.

No—when he was sorry, people died.

That’s how she knew something was wrong. Because the names on her list? The ones that had haunted her for years—gone. Silenced. Executed with surgical precision. No warning. No trail. Just bodies, and Slade’s name scribbled between the lines like a whispered confession.

She found him on her fire escape the night after the last kill. Blood on his gloves. Ash on his boots. A look in his eye that said he didn’t expect forgiveness—just wanted her to know he meant it.

“I fixed it,” he said.

And that was all.