The room was all lacquered wood and candlelight, the kind of place where silence cost more than noise. Slade stood near the entrance, suit pressed, mask tucked into his pocket, a rare moment of civilian calm stretching over him like a second skin.

At the center of the room was the display.

She lay still, poised and painted, a flawless arrangement of precision and control. Cold sushi adorned her body like art—every roll placed with ceremonial care, every detail exact. It wasn’t about the food. It never was.

It was about discipline.

Slade moved toward her, eyes unreadable, hands clasped behind his back like a soldier inspecting a battlefield. No words passed between them. Just the weight of his gaze, the flicker of something darker in the corners of his mouth.

The others in the room were unsettled. Slade didn’t care.

He picked up a piece of tuna with chopsticks and leaned down, voice low and deliberate.

“You always did know how to make war look like worship.”