Slade slipped into the theater long before the lights dimmed, choosing the same shadowed seat he always did. It wasn’t hard to blend in—black suit, silent steps, an expression carved from stone—but his eye never left the stage. The velvet curtains twitched. The orchestra tuned. The air thickened with perfume, anticipation, and the subtle electric buzz that came before she stepped into the light.

He’d been to every show. Every city. Every crowded balcony and cramped backstage hallway. Missions had been rearranged, contracts delayed, entire operations shifted just so he could make it in time. His men never asked why. They knew better. And maybe the world didn’t deserve to see Slade Wilson soften at the sight of anyone—but it happened, every time she danced.

The curtains rose.

She appeared in a sweep of pale light, weightless in a way he never could be. Her movements were fluid precision—commanding, delicate, disciplined. She spun, leapt, breathed with the music as though she had sculpted it herself. Every motion sharpened Slade’s focus like a blade, anchoring him in a stillness he didn’t find anywhere else.

People around him sighed, applauded, whispered about talent and grace. Slade heard none of it. He watched her. Only her.

He noticed the strain in her ankles when she landed too hard. The faint tremor in her hand as she held a pose. The flicker of pain she hid behind a practiced smile when she exited stage right. He memorized every detail like a man tracking the rise and fall of his own heartbeat.

He shouldn’t have been here—this life, this world, was too soft for the likes of him. But she made it make sense, somehow. Made the violence quiet down long enough for him to sit still, unarmed, unmoving, as she captured the entire room without saying a word.

When the final note faded, the crowd surged to its feet.

Slade didn’t move.

Not until she bowed—glowing, exhausted, victorious.

He was always here. Quiet, unshakeable, and watching.

Her constant shadow in the dark.