Page 77 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir
He strides toward me, each step barely making a sound, and circles behind the chair. I sense him more than see him, like tension in the air coiling, tightening.
“Coalition Command thanks you for your cooperation,” he says, almost conversational. “You’ve given them quite the spectacle.”
I lift a brow. “You look like you’re still adjusting to the idea.”
“Oh, I’m quite comfortable,” he replies. “You see, you’ve given them exactly what they wanted.”
That should mean something. But I’ve learned long ago not to react before the full sentence lands.
“What was that?” I ask, voice dry.
“They’ve disavowed you.”
I let the words settle for a heartbeat before I respond. “Bad theater.”
The interrogator doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch.
“You’re labeled a traitor. A renegade operative. A fugitive. Your actions on Yareth Prime have been called ‘unauthorized,’ ‘politically destabilizing,’ and ‘in violation of allied protocols.’”
“Deny it,” I say.
“That’s the thing about public rebukes,” he says, leaning in just slightly. “They’re sanctioned. They’re broadcast. They’re irreversible.”
Great. I’ve been erased. A ghost to my own side, captured by the enemy like some footnote in a war diary.
He steps back.
I taste dust and iron in my mouth—either from the air or from having ground my teeth too hard. I let out a slow breath.
“So,” I say, “I’m a relic.”
“No,” he answers. “You’re a bargaining chip.”
That’s when they bring in the first set of restraints—padding over my head, soft blindfold wrapping around my eyes until all I can see is pitch. Instinct screams, but I don’t fight.
Not yet.
I feel them tighten straps around my ankles and then around my torso like some sadistic straightjacket. The bindings are precise, calculated—not meant to kill me, just to make sure I can’t charm my way out of a wet paper sack.
Then the chair rumbles beneath me.
They’re moving me.
I don’t know where. I don’t care. My breath becomes the only marker of time: inhale… exhale… inhale… It’s the only thing I can control.
The ride stops. The restraints loosen just enough for them to hook sensors to my temples. Pins. Tiny and cold like frostbite.
The interrogator speaks again—his voice from somewhere in front of me.
“Let’s begin,” he says. No flourish. No preamble.
The first wave is all lecture—facts, half-truths, strategic mythology meant to disorient. They want to drown me in context so that when the pain comes I won’t know what’s real.
They turn the lights down.
Not off. Down.
A hazy gray replaces the harsh white. Enough to see shadows, not enough to see faces.
