Slade kept his vices like he kept his weapons—hidden in plain sight, labeled as something else, impossible to access unless you knew the system. Most people assumed the vault in his study held classified files or unregistered firearms. It did. But tucked behind a loose panel of titanium and encrypted locks was something far more surprising:

A perfectly organized stash of premium weed.

His sister found it by accident, which was the part that annoyed him most. One minute she was looking for batteries, the next she was standing there with a vacuum-sealed bag of loud and a raised eyebrow. Slade stood in the doorway, arms folded, expression like steel cooling after fire.

She didn’t say anything, but her face said really? — and that was somehow worse than words.

The truth was, the stash wasn’t for parties. It wasn’t for show. It was for nights when the missions replayed in flashes, too quick to catch, too real to ignore. When he couldn’t sleep. When the ghosts crawled in.

He stepped past her, opened a metal tin, and pulled out rolling papers and a grinder, methodical as loading a rifle. The silence between them was comfortable, familiar in a way only damaged siblings could understand.

“Don’t make a thing out of it,” Slade muttered, breaking the silence only once the weed hit the tray.

His sister didn’t. She just sat beside him at the table, legs folded, watching him work with the same hands that had taken lives and protected hers in the same heartbeat.

For the first time in weeks, the house didn’t feel like a bunker. It felt like something closer to real life—messy, flawed, and strangely calm.

Slade lit up, exhaled, and passed it over like a peace offering. Family business. Wilson style.