Page 81 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
I drag him out the back exit. Dump him into the alley. There’s a burst of steam from a nearby vent, mist curling up like it’s excited for what’s about to happen.
I don’t kill him.
I carve the names of his fake corporations into the skin of his back. Slow. Deep. Let him scream. Let him remember. He wakes up in a med center six hours later. Missing three fingers and a tongue.
He’ll live. Barely.
And more importantly—he’ll talk. Or type. Or whatever. I make sure of that.
Once the first domino falls, the rest are exposed.
Next is Seris Jann. Lucky for me, it’s only a short walk from Golden Boy’s place. It's a ramshackle complex she's too cheap to upgrade. Slumlord. Bribery conduit. Smiles like she’s everyone’s auntie but keeps her money locked up in data bricks soaked in untraceable IDs. She moves through the underworld like smoke, always just out of reach, always plausible deniability.
I track her to a club that sits half in the law and half outside it—La Nuit Oblique. Velvet lighting. Vantablack walls. Holographic dancers flickering between real and unreal in time to the synthwave beat. No cameras. No security.
Perfect.
She sees me too late. Tries to run. She doesn’t get far.
I don’t kill her, either.
But when I’m done, her knees are shattered, her compad fried from the inside out, and her favorite lieutenant’s hanging from the ceiling by his own intestines. She knows why. She’llknow who. And she’ll tell every single one of her clients: Grau’s cleaning house.
Grau’s off the leash.
Grau’s done pretending to be civilized.
The night blurs into a rhythm of violence and accounting.
I keep going. One by one. I take them apart—quietly, mostly. No flashy public executions. No blasterfire and broken streets. That’s not how you build fear.
You build fear in the silences. The disappearances. The whispers.
A tech consultant vanishes on her way to a shuttle. A logistics officer wakes up blind and screaming, all her financial implants melted. A junior exec under Tidball’s influence drowns in his own ice bath—after I pin his ledger to his chest with a plasma scalpel.
I leave signs. Not signatures. Not graffiti. But echoes. A calling card made of absence and precision. They know it’s me. I want them to know.
I don’t sleep. Can’t. Every time I shut my eyes, I see her.
Yara.
The way her mouth trembled when she told me to go. The way she pulled her hand back like I was something toxic. The way her voice broke when she asked, “How could you do this without telling me?”
Because you wouldn’t have let me. Because you still think the wolves will play fair if you smile nicely enough. Because you still believe in rules.
I used to. Before they buried my kind in ash and lies and called it peace. Before the galaxy turned me into something sharp and dark and necessary.
That anger fuels me through the final physical target.
Korr Jast. Big fish. Mob broker. Merc pipeline. Tied directly to Tidball’s spine.
I don’t ambush him. I walk into his suite during a meeting and toss his bodyguard through the third-floor window without a word. Glass rains down like judgment. Jast lunges for his sidearm. I catch his wrist mid-motion, crush it.
He howls.
I don’t smile. Not even a little.
“I want you to listen very carefully,” I say.
