The mission was done. Clean shot, no witnesses—just the kind of precision Slade prided himself on. But instead of leaving immediately, he lingered.

The target’s penthouse was all polished floors and sterile taste. No soul. No warmth. Except for the figure stretched across the ruined silk sheets, skin kissed by citylight bleeding in through the broken window.

Slade stood at the edge of the bed, still half-dressed in tactical gear, blood drying on his knuckles. His partner lay there, watching him—silent, waiting—not afraid, never that, but knowing. Knowing exactly what this moment meant.

They were supposed to move. Supposed to vanish.

Instead, he peeled off the last of his armor and joined her.

There, in the space where death had just breathed its last, they chose something raw. Real.

Not love. Not safety.

But closeness, in the eye of the storm.