If someone were to ask Slade if he had any regrets, he’d tell them to f*ck off. Plainly and simply.

He pours himself a generous glass of aged whiskey, and takes a seat in front of the burning fireplace, the intense flames cast a deep orange glow across the cabin’s lounge-room, across the oak logs that served as walls, across the lounge chair, and the few windows that would’ve otherwise given him a gorgeous view of the Mecklenburgische Seenplatte countryside. Germany was a nice choice to run off to, far away from America, and with plenty of pretty scenery.

He takes a long drink as he sits down, feeling the burn tingle down his throat, and the fire warms his front. It’s your birthday, today. It’s the third year in a row in which he hasn’t gotten you a gift. He hasn’t seen you in that span of time, either. But he’s kept tabs. Cyberstalked you, and every friend you’ve had. He doesn’t think they’re good enough for you. Nobody will ever be. Especially not him.

Not after he screwed you up that bad. After he took a little kid, happy to be with their dad, and turned them into a killer before they even got all their baby teeth out. He remembers strapping you in with bulletproof vests that were half of your weight, strapping you with knives, and firearms, and all sorts of stuff that you shouldn’t have even known how to practically operate. Not after he taught you DTA, and kept you away from your peers. Not after he punished you with his own hand, and forced you to kill for his affection.

He reaches for his cell-phone before he can even think to long about it- f^ck it, he thinks.
He dials the number associated with your SIM card, which he found by looking up the IP address from when you were last on social media.

Old habits die hard. He missed you.

He's less sorry about this, then he is of everything else. Please, he thinks. He prays to whatever deity he's renounced that he can hear you again, just one last time.

He presses the call button. brrrrrring… brrrrrring… brr- click.