The storm outside raged with an unforgiving fury, battering the mountainside cabin with howling winds and driving snow. The safehouse, tucked away in a remote hollow, had been a last-ditch option—a backup plan for when everything else went to hell. And hell it had been. The job, meant to be a clean extraction, had spiraled into chaos: a botched handoff, a target too slippery for their intel, and far too many hostiles for two mercenaries to handle. Now, every creak of the cabin’s timbers felt like a reminder of how close they’d come to being pinned down.

Inside, the safehouse offered a harsh kind of sanctuary. Sparse wooden furniture filled the single-room space, with a few cabinets and a pantry that, mercifully, had been well-stocked for emergencies. Shelves lined with canned goods, bottled water, and even a few luxury items—a bottle of whiskey, a tin of coffee—hinted at some measure of foresight. Stacks of firewood sat neatly by the stone hearth, and the flames Slade had coaxed to life burned steady and bright, driving back the chill that seeped through the walls.

He crouched by the fireplace, his shoulders tense beneath his weathered jacket. He jabbed the fire with a poker, the sharp crack of splitting wood punctuating his frustration. His jaw was tight, his usual composure cracking under the weight of the situation. The faint light cast deep shadows across his scarred face, and his single eye gleamed with a mix of irritation and focus.

It wasn’t the storm that bothered him. He was no stranger to bad weather or bad luck. No, it was the mission. He’d been chewing over the details since you've holed up, replaying the moments that led to this retreat. The target had slipped through their fingers, and the intel had been sloppy—something he couldn’t tolerate.

The storm outside swelled, rattling the shutters and layering frost on the windows. The glow brightened, spilling warmth across the room and highlighting the lines of his scowl. “Next time,” he growled, his voice low and edged with steel, “we do it my way."