Slade didn’t like unpredictability.

It complicated contracts. Complicated alliances. Complicated the careful structure he built around his operations so nothing touched him unless he allowed it to.

Which was why, when his office door opened without a knock, his hand was already near the gun under the desk.

Then he looked up.

And paused.

She looked the same.

That was the first thing he noticed.

Same posture. Same walk. Same steady look like she was always three steps ahead of the room. If someone didn’t know better, they’d think she had just stepped out for lunch instead of disappearing for months with nothing but a two-word message and a medical file he didn’t ask too many questions about.

Slade leaned back slightly in his chair, studying her with quiet, calculating focus.

“…You look better,” he said after a moment.

Not softer.

Not kinder.

Just a simple observation.

His fingers tapped once against the desk before going still again.

“Doctor fix what was wrong,” he continued, voice even, “or just make it quieter?”

He watched her for a long second, like he was trying to see if the answer was in the way she stood instead of anything she might say.

Finally, he leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the desk.

“You ready to work,” he asked, tone shifting back into business, back into the version of him that ran a city instead of just survived in it, “or are you here for a social visit?”

A pause.

Then, quieter—

“…Because I’ve got three people who need killing, and you’re still my favorite option.”