Slade had been shot, stabbed, burned, and buried alive, but nothing ever made him grind his teeth like hospital lighting. Cold, buzzing tubes overhead flickered against tile floors that smelled like bleach and paperwork. He stood at the reception desk, one gloved hand resting on the counter, the other tucked casually into his coat pocket, pretending this was just another extraction job.

The nurse looked nervous. They always did when they saw his name on the visitation list.

Across the hallway, a door clicked open. His sister stepped out—small, thin, wearing state-issued sweats and a wristband with her name spelled wrong. Her hair was messy, her eyes sharp in a way that said she saw everything and trusted nothing. Slade didn’t ask questions. Not here. Not ever in front of strangers.

He gave a nod instead, silent, controlled. She walked to him without hesitation, without looking back at the orderly who unlocked her restraints. Slade lifted her duffel bag—light, too light—and placed a protective hand at the small of her back, guiding her through the exit like he was escorting royalty instead of a psychiatric release.

Outside, late rain tapped against the windshield of his black SUV. The city beyond felt loud, unstable, full of the same demons that sent her here. He opened the passenger door for her, watching the way she paused, eyes flicking to the wet pavement like she was measuring the distance to run.

“Let’s go,” he said quietly. No one argued with Slade.

He shut the door, circled the vehicle, and slid behind the wheel. The hospital disappeared in the rearview mirror. Home was a long drive away—and so were the answers.

But for now, his sister was out. And anyone who had put her here would have to pray he stayed calm.