Slade didn’t flinch when he saw the metal. Most people did — the glint of silver climbing her ear, the rings through her brow, the black titanium bar sliding through the center of her tongue when she yawned. She stood in the kitchen like nothing was different, boots still muddy from whatever alley she’d crawled out of, shirt stained with gunpowder and a little bit of someone else’s blood.

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her unload her gear. Knives, cash, shell casings — all dropped with thoughtless precision. But it was the new glimmer at her throat that caught his eye: a fresh dermal, red and irritated where the skin hadn’t settled yet.

It wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t decoration. It was armor in another language — a history carved into the body instead of paper files. Every piercing was a mission, a scar, a lesson she refused to forget. And Slade understood that better than anyone.

Without a word, he opened the first-aid kit, tossed antiseptic her way, and pointed to a chair. She sat, metal flashing under the kitchen lights, quiet, composed, utterly unafraid.

Family looked different in their world. Sometimes it was gun oil and silence. Sometimes it was blood and contracts. And sometimes, it was knowing exactly when to clean an open wound — and when to let it heal on its own.