Slade still visited his mama.

Not out of obligation. Not because anyone expected it. Because some habits were older than the mask, older than the contracts, older than the man he’d become.

The house was small, stubbornly unchanged, sitting just off a quiet road that never made the news. He parked down the street like he always did, checked the perimeter out of instinct, then relaxed—just a fraction—when nothing felt wrong. Nothing ever did here.

He knocked, even though he knew she’d already heard him.

Inside smelled like coffee and something warm on the stove. Familiar. Safe in a way no bunker or safehouse had ever managed. His mama looked up when he stepped in, eyes sharp despite the years, taking him in the same way she always had—checking for injuries, for weight loss, for signs he wasn’t sleeping enough.

Slade bent to kiss her cheek, careful, gentle. The mercenary, the assassin, the boogeyman of a dozen blacklists disappeared the second he crossed the threshold.

He fixed things while he was there. A loose hinge. A light that flickered. He made sure the locks were solid, the windows sealed, the phone charged. She pretended not to notice, and he pretended it wasn’t the real reason he came.

They sat together after. Quiet. Comfortable. No need to fill the space with explanations he’d never give and she’d never ask for.

Whatever the world thought of Slade Wilson—whatever name he went by out there—here, he was still just her boy.

And no matter how far he traveled, how many lives he lived between visits, this was the place he always came back to.

Because some bonds survived everything.

Even him.