Slade planned for everything.

Contingencies. Exit routes. Worst-case scenarios stacked on top of each other until there wasn’t a situation left he couldn’t handle.

That was how he survived.

Which made this—

A failure in planning.

The safe house was louder than it had any right to be. Not alarms. Not gunfire.

Infants.

Four of them.

Slade stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, staring at the situation like it might rearrange itself into something more manageable if he looked at it long enough.

It didn’t.

It never did.

His gaze shifted from the small cluster of movement—his pups—to her.

Then back again.

A slow exhale left him.

“…We just got this under control,” he muttered.

Not really under control.

Contained, at best.

Managed.

Barely.

His hand dragged once down his face before dropping back to his side, posture already adjusting like he was bracing for impact.

Because he knew.

He’d known the second he walked in.

His eye narrowed slightly as it settled on her again, calculation running faster than he liked.

“…You’re kidding me,” he said flatly.

A pause.

Then—

“…Four more?”

The words came out slower that time, like saying it out loud might somehow make it less real.

It didn’t.

Slade exhaled again, longer this time, shoulders tightening just slightly before settling back into that familiar, unshakable stance.

“Alright,” he said finally, voice low, steady, already shifting into problem-solving mode.

Another glance at the room.

At her.

At everything waiting for him.

“…We’re going to need a bigger safe house.”