She walked in dressed like trouble.

Not the real kind—Slade knew that kind. He could smell danger before it spoke, taste a lie in a heartbeat. No, this was a different kind of trouble. Silk. Lace. Leather. Bits of armor that didn’t protect a damn thing, and a sword strapped to her back like she had any idea how to use it.

She was cosplaying him.

Deathstroke. The Terminator. Her version came with thigh-high boots and more curves than tactical logic.

Slade leaned back in the chair, arms folded, one brow arched under his mask.

“You planning to take my job,” he asked, voice low, amused, “or just steal my look?”

She didn’t answer. Just smirked.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because Slade had faced armies. But this? This felt personal.