Slade never asked what you did with them.

He brought the bodies in like cargo—wrapped, tagged, handled with the same grim efficiency he applied to weapons and contracts. No theatrics. No questions. Just the understanding that this was the arrangement and it worked because neither of you pretended it was anything else.

He’d drop them in the secured room, wipe his hands clean, and move on to the next job while you took over. Different skill set. Same stomach.

Slade knew exactly what kind of precision your work required. Knew better than to interrupt or linger. Whatever you harvested, whatever you salvaged, it was done with intent—not cruelty, not greed. Purpose. Survival. Sometimes leverage.

“You’re efficient,” he’d say once in a while, tone neutral, evaluative. High praise, coming from him.

The operation ran like a closed loop. He handled acquisition. You handled aftermath. Nothing wasted. Nothing left unaccounted for.

People liked to paint Slade Wilson as a monster.

They never noticed the systems he trusted, the hands he relied on, or the fact that when he brought the bodies to you, it wasn’t chaos—it was coordination.

And if the world didn’t like what that said about either of you?

Slade had never lost sleep over the opinions of people who couldn’t survive the work.