Slade stood there a second longer than necessary, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes fixed on the damage.

Clean. Precise. Efficient.

“…You bested him,” he said slowly, disbelief threading through his usually flat tone. “And you did it with a bow and arrow?”

He crouched, inspecting the impact points like he was reading a crime scene. No wasted shots. No panic. Every arrow placed where armor failed, where movement stalled, where momentum died.

“That was a metahuman,” Slade continued, looking up at her now. “Enhanced reflexes. Heavy plating. Close-quarters advantage.” He shook his head once, sharp and incredulous. “And you brought medieval tech to a modern fight.”

He stood, a low huff of something that might’ve been a laugh escaping him. “That’s… insulting. To him.”

Slade walked a slow circle, reassessing—not the battlefield, but her. “You didn’t overpower him,” he said. “You outthought him. Controlled the distance. Forced the fight onto your terms.”

A pause. Then, quieter—respect settling in.

“Most people need guns to feel dangerous,” Slade said. “You didn’t.”

He glanced once more at the fallen opponent, then back at her. “Remind me,” he added dryly, “to never underestimate your hobbies.”

For a man who made legends bleed for a living, this wasn’t jealousy.

It was appreciation.

Because anyone who could drop a monster with nothing but string, wood, and patience—

That was someone Slade took very seriously.