The hotel room was expensive—too expensive for someone who made their living in blood—but Slade wasn’t paying for comfort. He was paying for silence. For walls thick enough to muffle memory. For a door that locked behind him and stayed that way.

He stood at the window, shirt half-open, blood scrubbed from his knuckles but not quite forgotten. The city lights blinked below like they were watching, but up here, in this room, nothing reached them. No eyes. No judgment.

Behind him, she moved quietly—his partner, the only person he trusted to have his back when the bullets started flying. She was slipping out of her gear, weapons laid out beside his on the bed, precise and clean. Always clean. Her silence wasn’t cold—it was familiar. Comfortable. The kind that came from knowing words weren’t always needed.

The job was over. No witnesses. No mistakes. Just bruises that would fade and money that wouldn’t.

He poured two glasses of whiskey and handed her one without a word. She took it, their fingers brushing—brief, grounding. They didn’t need ceremony. Just presence.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his weight settling into the mattress like an exhale. Her shoulder brushed his as she joined him, both of them staring out at the city’s reflection in the window. Neither spoke.

It wasn’t peace. But it was close enough.

And tonight, that would do.