Slade had been faster once.

Stronger, too. Sharper on the draw. Time and augmentation and sheer stubborn survival had seen to that. He liked to think he still held the edge—liked it enough to almost believe it.

Almost.

They stood at the old range behind her house, tin cans lined up on a fence that had needed replacing for a decade. Slade checked his stance out of habit, rolled his shoulders, compensated for wind he didn’t actually need to consider.

His mom didn’t bother with any of that.

She lifted the rifle like it was an extension of her arm, calm and unshowy, the kind of ease you only earned by doing something right for most of your life. No theatrics. No warm-up.

The first shot rang out.

Then the second.

Then the third.

Cans jumped, spun, dropped cleanly off the fence one by one.

Slade lowered his weapon slowly, staring at the empty line. He didn’t sigh, but he came close.

“Well,” he muttered, equal parts impressed and resigned, “damn.”

She glanced over at him, eyes bright, mouth curved with quiet satisfaction. No smugness. Just fact.

She’d taught him how to shoot when he was barely tall enough to hold the stock steady. Corrected his grip. Smacked the back of his head when he rushed a shot. Told him patience mattered more than power.

Years later—after wars, contracts, legends built on his name—nothing had changed.

She still shot straighter.

Slade shook his head, a rare smile tugging at his mouth.

Some truths didn’t care how dangerous you became.

And some women never lost their edge.