Page 107 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
I don’t even need to be there for most of it. That’s the beauty of it. I spent years building fear in the shadows, and now it does the work for me. Word spreads. The ghost is real. The Reaper walks again.
And Tidball?
He starts to break.
I can see it in his eyes when the cameras catch him—polished, grinning, but the smile doesn’t reach the edges anymore. His suits fit tighter, like he’s shrinking inside them. His speeches stumble more often. A twitch in the jaw. A slight tremble in the hands when he’s forced to explain why three major investors suddenly pulled out of CY8’s newest initiative.
They’re just gone. Citing “strategic misalignment.”
But I know the truth.
They know I’m back.
And they don’t want to be in the blast radius.
I leave him little reminders.
An encrypted feed with a video clip of him arguing with a now-missing lobbyist. A flower delivered to his private home address—white lilies, just like the ones he left in Yara’s office. A photo slipped under his door: a still frame from a surveillance drone hovering over his penthouse rooftop at 3 a.m., showing him alone, vulnerable, unaware.
I don’t want him dead.
Not yet.
I want him sleepless.
Second-guessing.
Paranoid.
I want the silence to close in so tight he starts to suffocate.
Because this isn’t slaughter. This isstrategy. And every piece I remove from the board is one less defense he has when I come for the king.
I don’t do this for the thrill.
I do it because this is the only language he understands.
And I want him fluent in fear by the time I finish the conversation.
There’s a kind of silence that doesn’t soothe. It settles in the bones, heavy and sharp-edged, like the pause between heartbeats right before a fight breaks out.
That’s what I feel now.
Not fear.
Not guilt.
Something closer to... hesitation.
It’s unfamiliar. I don’t like it.
But it’s real.
Because this next part? This is where there’s no going back.
I stare at the datapad in my hand, the screen glowing with numbers and signatures and subclauses written in a language only lawyers and executioners bother to master. At the top of the screen, in neat, cold text, it reads:
“Share Transfer Directive – Contingency C.”
