Slade didn’t ask questions when she showed up at his door—lip split, knuckles bruised, silence weighing heavier than any confession.

He just grabbed his coat.

It wasn’t heroism. It wasn’t mercy. It was math. Cause and effect. Someone laid hands on what was his. And that someone had a name, an address, and apparently no idea who they were dealing with.

By the time Slade found him, the man was laughing, drunk, and entirely too comfortable.

It didn’t last.

There were no threats. No speeches. Just a quiet moment between the first broken bone and the last breath, where Slade looked him in the eye and said, “She won’t think about you again.”

Then he walked out, calm as ever, as if the blood hadn’t already started to soak into the carpet.

Because for someone like Slade Wilson, this wasn’t revenge.

It was closure.