Slade had a very specific rule about his personal life:

Don’t get involved. Don’t get attached. And definitely don’t keep people around who didn’t understand boundaries.

Which was why the universe clearly had a sense of humor.

He looked down at the file in his hand again, flipping it open like the information might change the second time he read it.

It didn’t.

Photo. Name. Schedule. Price.

Target: Alive for termination.

He stared at the picture a second longer before dragging a hand down his face slowly.

“…You have got to be kidding me,” he muttered.

Of all the people in the city—politicians, crime bosses, corrupt CEOs, metahumans with enemies a mile long—someone had put a contract out on her.

The woman who used to follow him like a shadow. The woman who showed up at the same bars, the same stores, the same streets like she thought proximity was a personality trait.

He closed the file slowly, jaw tightening as he thought through the problem from every angle like it was a mission gone sideways.

“Stalked me for six months,” he said to the empty room. “Learned my schedule. My habits. My safe routes.”

A pause.

Then he exhaled through his nose.

“…Which means she knows how to avoid assassins.”

Another pause.

He picked up his gear off the table, already moving toward the door.

“Which means if someone else took this contract,” he continued, voice low and resigned, “this is going to turn into a very annoying problem.”

He opened the door, shaking his head once.

“…I’m not letting someone else kill my stalker.”