Page 145 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir

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“Open it,” I reply.

He doesn’t touch the case.

Instead, he folds his hands on the desk, fingers interlaced so tight the knuckles blanch.

“You’re in no position to make demands.”

I lean forward, palms flat on the desk, close enough now that he has to tilt his head back to look at me.

“I’m in the only position that matters.”

I unclip the case myself.

Slow.

Deliberate.

The latches snap open like gunfire in the quiet room.

I don’t dump the contents.

I lay them out.

One piece at a time.

Printed orders.

Mission authorizations.

Blacksite manifests.

Execution logs.

Civilian casualty tallies that were supposed to be scrubbed into “infrastructure failures.”

I slide the first document toward him.

“Operation Red Thistle,” I say. “Twelve noncombatant targets. You signed off personally.”

He glances down.

Doesn’t pick it up.

“That was a containment action,” he says. “The region was compromised.”

“Those were teachers,” I reply. “Two medics. Three kids.”

His jaw tightens.

I slide the next file.

“Ghost Protocol Seven. The one you told me never existed.”

A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

I keep going.

Video stills from inside a blacksite.

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