The warehouse stank of rot and cheap cologne—perfume over blood, pretending it could cover what was done here. Slade moved through the shadows like a phantom, blades strapped tight, guns silent at his back. He didn’t make a sound.

He didn’t need to.

They’d taken the wrong woman.

She’d vanished years ago, a name whispered from a dying informant and a file that had nearly been scrubbed from every system that mattered. Walked away from the life, from him, when the weight of the blood got too heavy. He let her go. Respected her choice. Even told himself she was better off far from the crosshairs.

But then came the photo. Grainy. Shackled. Not a mark of death, but of ownership. And Slade didn’t care how far he had to go or how many bodies it took—he wasn’t leaving without her.

Another guard dropped. Another step closer. His heart pounded, not from fear, but from fury. The kind that only came when someone touched what was his to protect—even if they weren’t his anymore.

He reached the locked door at the back of the compound. Behind it, a life broken but still breathing.

He holstered his gun, drew his knife, and kicked the door off its hinges.