Page 135 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
Not fear.
Not dread.
Not survival instinct.
Partnership.
The press hovers like metallic insects outside the station perimeter an hour later—cameras trained where the charred wall still glows faintly in emergency lighting. I wear a tailored coat over my suit, the fabric stiff with purpose, and I step up to the podium with a gravity I haven’t learned so much asclaimed.
Microphones buzz. Reporters squint into the floodlights. Drones hover like anxious birds.
I breathe in the scent of ozone and scorched plastic and answer the first question with clarity, not deflection.
“Yes,” I say, voice calm and measured, “this was an attack on infrastructure linked to CY8’s ethical integration initiative.”
A murmur runs through the press corps.
People want explosions. They want fear. They want panic. They want blame without consequence.
They don’t get it.
I continue.
“But let me be clear: no one was physically harmed, and our teams are already implementing secondary systems. This was an attempt at intimidation, not at destruction. And intimidation does not work.”
Flashbulbs pop.
I look out over the crowd, gaze sweeping over every camera lens like I’m stitching each one into a tapestry of accountability.
“If you think we will relent in our pursuit of ethical transparency… you’re wrong. If you think CY8 will stop advancing protections for employees, civilians, and veterans of the Combine… you’re wrong. And if you think that threats and terror tactics can undo what has been built through resilience and purpose… you areverywrong.”
It’s not rhetoric.
It’s strategy.
And when I step away from the podium, still fielding questions with precision, I catch a glimpse of Grau standing in the back—arms crossed, eyes steady, presence like a tether in a storm of words and optics.
His lips quirk just slightly.
Not amusement.
Not approval.
Justrecognition.
We shoulder this together. Not as ruler and guard. Not as lover and protector.
As partners.
Later, in the situation room, the screens are a constellation of feeds—security footage, sensor readouts, threat analysis, regional cables.
I sit at the head of the table, pulse steady, fingers tapping with rhythm not anxiety. Each report is another map of intent, vectors of attack, patterns of chaos. Analysts throw out hypotheses; I filter them like light through prisms.
Grau leans in beside me, not overtaking the conversation. Just there—solid, analytical, present.
“We’ve identified two vectors,” he says, tracing a line on the main projection. “One’s residual organic explosives with trace signatures similar to a faction that fragmented last quarter. The other is a communications jammer tuned to bypass our secondary firewalls.”
“Which means?” I ask.
