Page 27 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir
I scrub the windows of the ops node twice before Leah shows. Not for clarity. Just for something to do that doesn’t involve staring at the blinking command updates or rereading the risk assessments I’ve already memorized.
She steps through the hatch like she’s done it every day of her life—shoulders loose, spine tall, chin up like she owns the air she breathes. But her eyes catch on the scorch marks alongthe ceiling. The melted insulation. The emergency lighting that flickers just enough to drive someone mad.
“This looks cozy,” she says. “Do we get robes and matching slippers, or is that extra?”
I toss her a datapad. “New intel. Read it.”
She skims fast. Faster than most. Her brow knits tighter with every swipe.
“Under us?” she mutters. “Here? We’re sitting on it?”
“Ataxian node. Command-grade signature buried in waste routing paths. My guess? Hidden relay point or pre-invasion holdout.”
She lowers the pad. “Which means if they’re active... they’re not just listening.”
“They’re preparing.”
She sets the pad down slowly, like it might explode.
I watch her, quiet.
“I assume this isn’t a brainstorming session about snacks and escape tunnels,” she says finally.
“No. This is where it stops being prep. We shift to full op status. Controlled surveillance, heat-map overlaying, recon with sensor ping isolation. And we go dark.”
She processes that. “And I assume you’ve got Command breathing lava down your neck.”
“Practically licking my scales.”
She exhales and crosses her arms, bracing herself. “You’re going to tell me I’m benched.”
I don’t answer.
“Don’t,” she says sharply.
“This isn’t street-level rerouting anymore, Leah. This is embedded tech, encrypted comms, double-backdoor kill switches.”
“I’m aware.”
“If anything goes wrong?—”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“You’re not trained for this level.”
She steps toward me. One foot, then the next, slow and deliberate. Her eyes narrow, but not in anger. Focus.
“No one trained me to survive a League massacre either,” she says. “Or to hide under a corpse pile for six hours waiting for the screaming to stop. Or to run a logistics spider-web so tight not even predatory contractors could poke a hole. But I did it. And I’m still standing.”
“You’re standing because you’re smart,” I say. “Because you’re not reckless.”
“So don’t make me reckless now by treating me like I’m fragile. I’ve done every single thing you’ve asked. And more.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Then why are we having this conversation?”
“Because I care whether you make it out.”
