Slade didn’t usually do this kind of thing. The fluorescent lights, the hum of the freezers, the carts squeaking against the polished linoleum—it all felt like a different battlefield. But here he was, list in hand, moving through the aisles with practiced efficiency.

His sister trailed behind, basket dangling from one arm, scanning the shelves like she was reading enemy movements. It was slower than he liked. Too many choices. Too much small talk in the form of food brands. But he didn’t complain. Not today. Today, she was with him. Today, they weren’t hunting or hiding; they were just…existing.

He noticed the way she hesitated at the snack aisle, the familiar reflex of caution mixed with desire. Slade didn’t ask why she picked the overpriced chips over the cheap ones. He just nodded once, approving without saying a word. It wasn’t about cost. It never was with them. It was about choice.

By the time they reached the checkout, the basket was full of essentials, some indulgences, and the quiet satisfaction of a mission accomplished without bullets. Slade pushed the cart with a hand that had held rifles, grenades, and knives, now wrapped around a plastic handle like it was another kind of weapon.

The cashier smiled politely at the pair of them, unaware of who they really were, the lives they led, the things they’d survived. Slade barely glanced up. They could keep their innocence. He’d keep his silence.

Grocery shopping wasn’t a battlefield. Not really. But in the Wilson house, even the mundane felt tactical.