The shot came from the left.

Too close. Too fast.

Slade calculated angles before the second round fired.

No cover. No time. Contract blown. Extraction compromised.

He moved.

And she was suddenly between him and the muzzle flash.

The bullet hit her vest. Hard enough to knock the air out of her. Hard enough to leave bruises that would last weeks.

But not lethal.

Because he’d made sure she was angled correctly.

The firefight ended thirty seconds later.

Slade cleared the room with mechanical precision, double-tapping threats, scanning exits, confirming no secondary shooters.

When he finally turned back to her—

She was already on her feet.

Alive.

And looking at him like she’d never seen him before.

“You’re breathing,” he said evenly. “Vest held.”

She didn’t respond.

Didn’t yell.

Didn’t argue.

That was worse.

Back at the safehouse, she stripped off the damaged armor in silence. The bruise was blooming dark across her ribs.

“You were closest to the line of fire,” he explained, voice clinical. “Your positioning made the most sense.”

Still nothing.

He stepped closer.

“It was the correct tactical decision.”

Her jaw tightened.

That’s when it hit him.

This wasn’t about survival odds.

This was about trust.

Slade had always prioritized the mission.

But tonight—

He’d used her as leverage.

And while she was still alive—

She wasn’t speaking to him.

For the first time, the silence felt heavier than the gunfire.

And Slade wasn’t entirely sure how to calculate his way out of it.