Page 10 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
The lounge reeks of money.
Not credits. Money. Old, oiled, generational wealth that never had to earn anything. The kind of place where the chandeliers are made of plasma-sculpted cryolite and the napkins come with holo-seals. Every drink costs more than a mercenary’s monthly retainer, and every smile is fake but practiced to perfection.
I love it.
I arrive early, because of course I do. Hunters don’t show up late to traps they plan to spring. I pick a booth near the back—dark, private, but with a full view of the entrance. The hostess tries not to flinch when she sees me. That’s cute. I don’t bother to correct her assumption that I’m here for “security.” I flash a grin, all teeth and bone spurs, and she practically bows her way backward.
Let them stare.
I don’t hide what I am.
No glamours, no neural distortion, no scent scrubbers. I’m a Reaper. I look like a walking nightmare to half the species in this system, and the other half wants to hire me to maketheirnightmares go away.
Fine by me.
The lounge lights flicker in calculated rhythm—soft pulses that shift with the bassline of music designed for ambiance, not dancing. The air tastes like ozone and some kind of citrus-laced perfume—sweet enough to coat the back of my throat.
I lean back in the booth, arms draped across the backrest like I own the place. I don’t, but I could. Give me a week and a reason.
The chair creaks under my weight. These places never plan for Reapers. We’re rare enough, and most of us don’t “socialize.” But that’s what makes this work. Nobody expects a monster to show up for a date.
Molly was smart to pick this place.
High-end, high-profile, and crawling with just enough corporate scum to blend me into the shadows.
I scan the entryway again.
She’s late.
Or maybe I’m impatient.
I’m never impatient.
And then?—
The doors part with a soft hiss, and time stops breathing.
I know it’s her before I evenseeher. Something primal coils tight in my gut, a rope snapping taut around my spine. The lounge noise fades to static. The air shifts—like the molecules themselves make way for her.
And then she walks in.
Yara Greenfield.
Not a name anymore. Not a target. Not a profile file or a bounty lead.
Aforce.
She’s shorter than I expected. Slim. Delicate, almost. Her dress is some kind of deep steel-gray that shimmers every time she moves, clinging to curves she probably downplaysin boardrooms. Her hair’s up, her posture perfect, but there’s tension in the set of her shoulders—like she’s bracing for a punch she can’t see coming.
She doesn’t see me at first. Her eyes scan the room, scanning, cautious. Calculating.
Then they land on me.
And everything inside mebreaks.
I’ve been shot, stabbed, electrocuted, thrown out of orbital craft. Nothing—not pain, not fear, not lust—nothingcompares to this.
My vision doubles.
