Slade didn’t do impulsive.

So when he sat in the chair and told the artist the name, there was no hesitation in his voice—just finality.

The room smelled like antiseptic and ink, the hum of the needle steady and unforgiving. Slade watched his reflection in the mirror instead of the work itself, jaw set, eyes calm. Pain had never been a deterrent. If anything, it clarified things.

“Right here,” he said, tapping his chest once. Over his heart. Like it was the most obvious placement in the world.

The needle bit. He didn’t flinch.

Names were dangerous things. They could be used. Taken. Turned into leverage. Slade knew that better than anyone. That was exactly why he chose to make it permanent—why he put it somewhere armor couldn’t fully hide.

This wasn’t a mark of ownership.

It was a declaration.

When it was finished, he stood, pulling his shirt back on without ceremony. The letters were still red, still angry, like the decision itself hadn’t cooled yet.

Slade glanced at the mirror one last time and nodded, satisfied. “Good,” he said quietly. “That’s where it belongs.”

For a man who lived by contingency plans and exit strategies, this was a line he drew without regret.

Some things weren’t meant to be erased.