Page 1 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir
CHAPTER 1
KALEV
The stink hits me first.
Not rot—though that’s here too—but something older. Something permanent. Burned metal and ozone, the stale aftertaste of coolant leaks and too many years of broken promises. It’s in the walls, the air, the bones of this place. The League calls it a "manufacturing hub," but really it’s a half-collapsed tomb of machinery, running on scavenged power and workers too poor to say no.
The lights flicker like they’re afraid to stay on too long. Red emergency strobes blink somewhere deeper in the complex, but no one reacts. That’s just Spire Station 9’s heartbeat now—off-tempo, erratic, always threatening cardiac arrest.
I ghost through a maintenance corridor behind the south generator stack, boots silent, pulse steady. My fingers brush against flaking insulation. Static crackles down my arm as I tap the charge into place on the secondary relay panel.
One down. Three to go.
I don’t breathe too loud. Don’t move too fast. Don’t think too hard. That last one’s the killer.
This is what I’m good at. Breaking things that look stable. Ending lives from the shadows. Whispering war into places pretending at peace.
"—told you, if they dock pay again I’m walking?—"
Voices. Soft. Nearby.
I freeze, dropping instinctively to a crouch. My scales press cold against the floor. I’m in shadow, half-tucked beneath a snarl of leaking coolant pipes. The voices drift closer. Two humans, by the sound of it. Young. Male and female. Not guards. Not mercs. Civilians.
“…You say that every cycle,” the girl replies, dry amusement in her tone.
“I mean it this time. I’m not dying in this dump for half-rations and a leaking respirator.”
They round the corner, close enough now that I can make out their faces. Pale under the blinking overheads. Dirt-smudged uniforms. Laugh lines that don’t quite reach their eyes. They’re carrying a crate between them. Whatever’s inside is heavy—they’re grunting with effort, not fear.
I let out a breath. They don’t see me.
They shouldn’t be here.
Command said automated systems. No personnel. This sector was supposed to be dark.
I don’t know their names. I won’t ask.
But I can’t let them die.
The girl sighs. “Come on, Yarro. Two more pallets and we’re out.”
“Sure,” he mutters, and they disappear into the next aisle.
I exhale slowly. Then rise, silent and deadly, and move on.
By the time I plant the second and third charges, my jaw is tight enough to crack stone. Every relay I wire, every bypass I overload, it all screams the same thing in my head: They’re still inside.
The fourth charge is supposed to go under the main reactor subfloor. Perfect placement. Total disruption. But it’s two corridors past where Yarro and the girl vanished. If they took the wrong turn?—
I curse under my breath. Vakutan words, not meant for translation. Ugly things. I punch the wall beside the relay box and feel it buckle.
Then I grab the compad from my thigh holster and call up the grid map.
"Override charge pattern," I growl.
The system pings for authorization. I force it. Codebreaker subroutine kicks in. My signature override slams through. Red turns amber. Amber blinks.
Target radius reduced. Detonation staggered. Collateral minimized.
