Page 1 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
CHAPTER 1
GRAU
The building thinks it’s safe.
That’s always how it goes.
Helios Combine architecture has a certain smugness to it—sleek angles, seamless glass, lighting calibrated to flatter anyone rich enough to be inside. Everything hums softly, like it’s proud of how expensive it is. Security systems tucked behind walls that cost more than most ships. Locks designed by people who’ve never had somethingtakefrom them.
I come in through the side anyway.
Not the front. Never the front. I climb the outer skin of the tower two levels above the street, claws sinking into a maintenance seam with a quietcrack. Bone spurs bite, anchor, release. The night air smells like rain that never quite falls and hot circuitry working overtime. Below me, traffic slides along in orderly ribbons, unaware.
The window gives when I press my palm to it and hum—low, not a song, just enough vibration to confuse the glass’s sense of itself. It unlatches like it’s embarrassed to resist. I slip inside and pull it closed behind me.
No alarms.
I bare my teeth. “Good.”
The office is dark except for the glow bleeding under one door at the far end. Carpet muffles my steps, thick and indulgent. Art lines the walls—abstract shapes pretending to mean something profound. I ignore it. Art doesn’t scream when you grab it.
The light comes from Molly Jaiden’s office.
She’s supposed to be gone. That’s what my intel says. Late nights, sure, but notthislate. The Coalition levy lit a fire under her months ago. People like her tend to start running when that happens.
I push the door open with two fingers.
She’s inside.
That’s… unexpected.
Molly sits at her desk, shoulders hunched, holo panels floating around her like anxious birds. Her fingers move fast, tapping, swiping, rearranging data. Her hair is twisted up in a style that means she’s stressed but still trying to look professional about it. The place smells like citrus perfume layered over old fear and burned recaf.
She doesn’t notice me at first.
I take a moment. Not out of mercy. Out of habit. You learn a lot about someone in the second before they realize they’re not alone.
Then my shadow hits her desk.
She freezes.
Slowly—too slowly—she turns her head.
Her eyes land on me and go wide. Her mouth opens. Panic flashes across her face, sharp and bright, the way it always does when people finally understand the math of the situation they’re in.
“Don’t—” she starts.
I let my shoulder spurs flex.
Just a little.
The words die in her throat.
“Evening, Molly,” I say, conversational. “You’re working late.”
Her gaze flicks to my hands. My claws. My teeth. She swallows hard. I can hear it. Hear her pulse trip, then race.
“You’re… you’re early,” she says.
