Slade didn’t care for labels. Assassin. Mercenary. Villain. Those were just words people used when they couldn’t stomach the cost of survival. But there was one label that clung to him lately—older.

He felt it in the way people looked at them together. The way strangers did the math behind their eyes when she laughed at something only he could make her laugh at. The way her hand fit so easily in his, like youth balancing violence.

She was sunlight brushing against armor. Unafraid of his silence. Unimpressed by his scars. And while the world whispered that she could do better, she never looked away. Never once treated him like something broken or past his prime.

And that terrified him more than any target ever had.

Because for the first time in decades, Slade wasn’t thinking about the next job or the next kill.

He was thinking about the next morning. And whether she’d still be there.