Slade didn’t open his doors for just anyone. Not clients. Not allies. Not even most of his kids.

But when she showed up—soaked in rain, blood on her collar, eyes wide with the kind of fear that only came from being hunted—he didn’t ask questions. He just stepped aside.

His safehouse wasn’t built for comfort. Concrete, steel, and silent alarms. But it was the safest place on this side of the hemisphere, and that’s what she needed.

No words were exchanged. Not at first. She dropped her bag by the door, her hands shaking as she peeled off a damp jacket, and Slade watched her like he would any live wire: cautious, alert… but not unkind.

She didn’t know yet, but she was safer here than anywhere else on Earth.

And God help whoever came looking for her.