Page 4 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir

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And I see it again.

That girl's face. The one from earlier. The curve of her jaw as she laughed, a sound meant to be quiet, private, not marked for death. Her hand gripping the edge of the crate. The smudge of engine grease on her temple.

In my mind, she turns toward me.

In my mind, she doesn’t survive.

The images hit in staccato. Snapshots from other missions. Blood on white tile. Screams over closed comms. The boy who begged for his mother while I set the charge anyway.

I press my fingers against my eyes until color blooms.

Don’t think. Don’t feel. Don’t flinch.

That’s what they trained us to do. That’s how you survive.

I open my eyes and inhale sharp, sour air. My compad pings softly—transport status updated. Two hours.

I could say no. I could vanish instead. I know a dozen ways to slip past Alliance tags. Glimnern. Far Rim. Even League space.

But I don’t.

Because I saw mercs with Coalition gear protecting a League-owned supply node.

Because I saw two kids moving crates while the system labeled them “acceptable loss.”

Because I still think, maybe, if I take the next mission… someone else doesn’t have to.

Lesser evil. That’s the deal.

I push off the pylon, bones cracking. My armor creaks as I walk.

Spuel waits.

CHAPTER 2

LEAH

Spuel smells like someone barfed up a scrapyard and tried to Febreze it.

The air’s thick with old coolant and melted plast, and something sharper underneath—ozone and hot metal—like the whole place might spontaneously combust out of spite. Not that I’d blame it. I’ve fantasized about lighting it on fire myself, more than once, and I’m a decent person.

Mostly.

“Terminal 12-B to Leah,” the voice crackles in my earpiece like it’s coming from inside a tin can full of angry bees. “You gonna log in today or are you protesting silently?”

I roll my eyes and slap my badge against the reader. The terminal flickers like it’s hungover. Probably is—half the machines here run on hope and spit.

“I’m logging in, Tavi,” I mutter, knowing full well she can hear the disdain. “I just needed a second to mourn my dignity.”

“You lost that when you took a contract on Spuel,” she shoots back.

“Touché.”

The screen pings, glowing the sickly green of League-standard interface systems. I start reviewing the crate queue, trying not to gag at the backlog.

“Who coded this algorithm?” I mutter. “A drunk jellyfish?”

“That’s offensive,” Ando grunts from his corner station. “To jellyfish.”

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