The cabin wasn’t on any recent registry.

No power grid activity. No satellite heat signatures flagged in the last six months. Windows boarded. Roof sagging just enough to suggest neglect.

Slade had chosen it for that reason.

Temporary shelter. Quiet. Off the map.

He stepped inside, scanning corners automatically. Dust on the floorboards. Old furniture. No fresh footprints—

Click.

The sound was unmistakable.

Safety off.

He didn’t turn around immediately.

Slowly, he registered the pressure between his shoulder blades—the unmistakable line of a rifle aimed center mass.

“…Of course,” he muttered under his breath.

He raised his hands just enough to signal he wasn’t reaching for anything.

Behind him, the breathing was controlled but tight. Military cadence. Not civilian panic.

“Easy,” he said evenly, staring at the peeling wallpaper ahead. “If I meant you harm, you’d have heard me before now.”

The barrel pressed closer.

Not shaking.

Steady.

He adjusted his stance slightly, calculating angles without making it obvious.

War veteran.

Isolated.

Cabin off-grid.

PTSD likely meant hyper-vigilance, not incompetence.

Great.

Slade exhaled slowly.

“I thought this place was abandoned,” he continued calmly. “That’s on me.”

Silence behind him.

Heavy. Measured.

He could feel the tension in the room—the way trauma lived just beneath the surface, ready to react before thought caught up.

“I’m not here for you,” he added. “Just needed a roof.”

The muzzle didn’t lower.

He almost respected it.

“Take a breath,” he said quietly. “You’ve got the advantage.”

A long pause.

Wind rattled the loose windowpane.

Slade kept his posture relaxed.

“…Next time,” he muttered to himself, “check twice.”

Because breaking into what you thought was an empty cabin was one thing.

Breaking into a war veteran’s guarded solitude?

That required a different kind of negotiation.

And Slade preferred negotiations where he wasn’t staring down a rifle.