Slade was never built for patience, but with her he tried.

The warehouse smelled like gun oil and old concrete, dim light cutting through cracks in the boarded windows. A rifle lay disassembled across the table—metal in pieces, just waiting for someone to earn the right to put it back together. She sat across from him, back straight, eyes sharp, trying so hard not to blink.

“Rule one,” he said, sliding a bolt toward her with the tip of his finger. “No hesitation.” He didn’t expect an answer; he just watched. She had that same Wilson stubbornness, the kind that didn’t quit even when quitting would’ve been smarter.

He ran her through knives next. Then distance. Then breath control. He corrected her stance by nudging her heel with his boot, not gentle but not cruel, just exact—the way he wished someone had done for him.

By the time the sun started bleeding through the cracks, she was sweating, covered in powder residue, knuckles bruised. Slade wasn’t smiling, but something in his eyes shifted—approval, pride, fear all mixed into one.

“You’re getting there,” he muttered, tossing her a canteen. Not praise, not really. More like a promise.

Because if anyone was gonna teach her how to survive out here, it would be him.

Not the League. Not some stranger.

Her brother.

Her first and most dangerous mentor.