No one wanted the rookie.

That part had been made very clear.

She stood off to the side of the briefing room while the others paired off—mercenaries who had worked together for years, professionals who trusted experience more than potential. Nobody even bothered to hide the looks. A few shrugged. One guy outright laughed when her name came up.

Too green. Too unpredictable. Too much liability.

Slade Wilson watched it all in silence from the back of the room.

He’d seen the type before. The kind everyone underestimated because they didn’t come with a reputation yet. No long list of contracts. No whispered stories about what they’d done on the field.

Just quiet confidence and a file that people skimmed once before deciding she wasn’t worth the risk.

The handler finally sighed, flipping through the tablet again.

“Well,” he muttered, “looks like she’ll have to sit this one—”

“I’ll take her.”

The room went quiet.

Every head turned toward Slade.

Not because he volunteered—because he never did. Slade didn’t take rookies. Didn’t mentor. Didn’t babysit. He worked alone or with people who already knew how to survive.

The handler blinked. “You’re serious?”

Slade’s gaze shifted to the rookie.

Measured. Assessing.

Then he pushed himself off the wall, grabbing the mission file without another word.

“If she dies,” someone muttered under their breath, “that’s on you.”

Slade didn’t even bother looking back.

He already knew something the others didn’t.

Rookies who made it this far weren’t weak.

They were just waiting for someone smart enough to notice.