Slade didn’t sleep much.

Years of war had carved that habit into him permanently—too many nights waiting for enemy movement, too many missions where closing your eyes meant not waking up again.

Midnight was usually when the memories showed up.

The safe house was dark except for the single lamp near the couch, its low light barely cutting through the shadows of the room. Outside, the city had settled into the quieter hours—traffic thinner, the noise distant enough that it faded into the background.

Slade sat back in the chair across from her, one arm resting along the armrest, the other loosely holding a glass he hadn’t touched in a while.

His visible eye stayed fixed somewhere past the wall, like he was watching something only he could see.

“People think soldiers come home when the war ends,” he said eventually, voice low and steady in the quiet room.

A faint breath left him through his nose.

“They don’t.”

His fingers tapped once against the side of the glass.

“Not really.”

The silence stretched between them for a moment before he continued.

“I’ve been in more countries than I can remember,” he added calmly. “Seen cities burn, watched men twice my size fold in seconds because they hesitated.”

His gaze shifted back toward her.

“But the thing they don’t tell you about war?”

The corner of his mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“It follows you home.”

He leaned back slightly in the chair, the lamp casting half his face in shadow.

“And it doesn’t care what time it is.”