The call came in the middle of Slade’s workout—three short vibrations against the mat, the pattern he and his wife reserved for school emergencies. He caught her eye across the room, saw the same flicker of irritation cross her face, and they both knew: one of the Wilson kids had done something spectacularly stupid.

Fifteen minutes later, the two of them stepped into the brightly colored classroom, a place that looked offensively innocent compared to the lives they led. Tiny chairs, glitter posters, construction paper rules taped crookedly to the walls. Slade felt his armor beneath his clothes—habit, comfort, warning.

Their son sat in the corner, arms crossed, jaw set in a too-familiar expression. The teacher straightened when she saw the Wilsons walk in. Slade’s wife gave a polite, tight smile; Slade didn’t bother.

The teacher cleared her throat. “Mr. and Mrs. Wilson… your son got into a fight today.”

Of course he had.

Slade’s gaze slid to the boy—assessing, calculating, recognizing the fire in him because it had once burned the same way in his own chest. His wife gently rested a hand on Slade’s arm, a silent reminder: we’re parents first here, not soldiers.

Slade exhaled, slow and controlled, before crouching to his son’s level. No threats. No orders. Just the weight of expectation and lineage hanging between them.

He didn’t need to say a word for the message to land.

The Wilsons had arrived. And even in a room full of crayons and finger paint, that meant something.