Page 45 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
The temperature in my blood drops ten degrees. The noise of the fans seems to fade into a dull buzz.
Ghostlight. A mercenary cell I buried years ago. Or thought I did.
“That’s a dead frequency,” I say, my voice low.
“It’s waking up,” Vex says. “There’s chatter. Encrypted, but I recognized the signature. They’re asking about you, Grau. Specifically you.”
He looks at me, his mechanical lenses whirring. “And the signature key... it belongs to Fenn Kreuger.”
The name hits me like a physical blow.
Kreuger. My second-in-command, back when I led a unit that didn’t exist on official records. Back before I made the callthat saved the mission but cost him his reputation—and his sanity.
“Kreuger is dead,” I say.
“The data says otherwise,” Vex replies. “He’s active. And if he’s active, he’s hunting. You might want to watch your back, Reaper. Tidball is a snake, but Kreuger? Kreuger is a rabid dog.”
I snatch the data module off the railing.
“Let him come,” I snarl. “I’ll put him back in the ground.”
Vex just shrugs and turns back to his terminal. “Just don’t bring the heat here. I have servers to cool.”
I turn and walk away, the metal grate vibrating under my boots.
I have the proof against Tidball. I have the weapon to save Yara’s company.
But now, I have a ghost on my heels.
Kreuger.
I push the thought down. One war at a time. First, I save Yara from the suit. Then, I deal with the soldier.
I leave the Cooling District and step back into the humid glow of the Helios night. The transition is jarring—from the mechanical roar of the stacks to the organic hum of the city streets.
I don’t run. I don’t signal.
I just prepare.
I arrange the files Vex gave me into patterns. Connect lines like constellations on a broken map. Each connection a target.
I think of Yara in her office—bristling with corporate pride, worn thin by debt and smears. And now, potentially in the crosshairs of a mercenary I thought I’d erased.
My compliance with her boundaries feels less like respect and more like negligence now.
But I don’t charge in yet.
I don’t throw down cards before I know the hand.
Instead, I go to where she asked me to be.
The café.
I sit in the corner of the high-end spot she likes—soft lighting, warm air scented with roasted beans and sugared cream—and wait. The contrast to where I just was is laughable. Silk napkins vs. steel grates.
She’s here. She enters like someone walking into her own atmosphere: steady, controlled, but not unfazed.
Her heels click against the marble floor — a sound sharp and precise, like punctuation. She never not notices it herself, the rhythm of her own movement; I can almost time it in my head like a metronome.
