Slade didn’t usually involve himself with Gotham.

The city had its own ecosystem of chaos—bats in the rafters, clowns in the streets, thieves on every rooftop. It was loud, theatrical, and far messier than the clean precision he preferred in his work.

Still, some jobs brought him there.

Some people kept him there.

The apartment was small by his standards, tucked high above the city where the skyline bled neon through the windows. Gotham’s usual soundtrack drifted up from below—sirens, distant engines, the restless pulse of a place that never really slept.

Slade leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching the city lights reflect in the glass.

Then his gaze shifted back to her.

His single visible eye narrowed slightly, not in suspicion—just calculation, the same instinct that never quite switched off.

“Your sister climbs rooftops for a living,” he said calmly, voice rough with the kind of authority that came from years of command. “Steals diamonds from people who can afford armies to guard them.”

He tilted his head a fraction, studying her like a problem he hadn’t decided how to solve yet.

“And somehow,” he continued, “you’re the one who decided dating an assassin was the questionable life choice.”

The corner of his mouth twitched faintly.

A rare thing.

“Gotham’s got an interesting sense of humor.”