The shot lined up clean.

Wind steady.

Distance calculated.

Slade’s finger rested against the trigger, breathing slow and measured as he watched his target step into the open across the street.

One squeeze.

Contract finished.

His phone vibrated.

Once.

Twice.

Slade ignored it.

Timing mattered.

The target paused near a doorway.

Perfect.

The phone buzzed again.

Persistent.

He frowned slightly, shifting just enough to glance at the screen.

Her name.

Slade exhaled through his nose.

He answered without taking his eye off the scope.

“What.”

Silence.

Then quiet crying.

Not dramatic.

Not panicked.

Just overwhelmed.

His focus broke instantly.

He pulled away from the rifle.

“What happened.”

Her words came out fragmented—tired, shaky, apologizing even while she cried. The baby wouldn’t stop. She hadn’t slept. Everything felt too loud, too much.

Slade looked back at the building across the street.

The target had stepped back inside.

Opportunity fading.

He didn’t even hesitate.

The rifle came apart in practiced motions—magazine out, bolt cleared, pieces sliding back into the case.

“Listen to me,” he said, voice steady now.

“You’re doing fine.”

More quiet crying.

“I’m coming home.”

A pause on the other end.

Like she didn’t believe him.

He zipped the case closed.

“Contract’s over,” he added simply.

Technically it wasn’t.

Didn’t matter.

He was already moving for the exit.

“Put the phone near the baby.”

A rustle.

Tiny crying filled the line.

Slade adjusted the strap on the rifle case and headed down the stairwell.

“Hey,” he muttered into the phone, voice softer now. “Give your mother a break.”

The crying continued.

He didn’t mind.

“Yeah,” he said quietly while pushing through the building door and into the street. “I’m on my way.”