They called it a disorder. Slade called it timing.

His sister could fall asleep anywhere — on a rooftop, in a supply closet, halfway through assembling a rifle. It used to scare him when they were younger. Now, he watched it like a weapon he didn’t have to sharpen. When her body went still, breathing slow and quiet, she became something else: invisible.

Tonight, she’d gone out mid-sentence, curled on top of a shipping container overlooking the docks. Most people would’ve shaken her awake. Slade didn’t. He just checked his watch and counted the guards below. Routine delivery. Illegal tech. Six men, two dogs. He’d take four. She’d handle the rest when she came back online.

Her sudden drop into unconsciousness always made enemies underestimate her — nothing dangerous about a sleeping girl, head resting on her arm like a child napping after recess. What they never noticed was the blade under her fingertips or the way her ear twitched when someone stepped too close.

Slade perched beside her, rifle balanced on his knee, eyes scanning through the scope. He didn’t bother moving her. Her body was already perfectly placed: shadowed, silent, harmless-looking.

People kept trying to cure her narcolepsy. Doctors. Teachers. Commanders. Even old military friends who meant well. Slade never told them the truth — that every time she unexpectedly slumped over mid-mission, it only made her more unpredictable, more lethal.

He squeezed the trigger once. A guard dropped. Two more drifted closer, curious, confused. Down below, one of the dogs barked.

Beside him, his sister suddenly stirred, eyelids fluttering open like she had never fallen asleep at all. No panic, no disorientation — just awareness. Total, razor-sharp awareness.

Slade smirked behind the mask.

Everyone else saw a condition. Slade saw an advantage.

Her biggest weakness had always been their most secret strength.