Page 14 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
He orders something called theBlack Sun.
The waiter leaves. The subtle hum of music resumes — jazzy, but not slow, crooning notes that curl around the booth like smoke. It’s time.
And suddenly I’mterrified.
His gaze is steady, unblinking. Not predatory — not in the way hunters watch prey — butfocused. Intent. Curious. And something deeper, like he’s measuring me not just with his eyes, but with his senses.
I clear my throat. “So… um. Nice place.”
“Nice?” he echoes, one corner of his mouth quirking. “This place has hosted treaty negotiations and three weddings — one of which involved an Ambassador and an Impaler Princess of Rielar V. There was a gladiatorial brawl during the dessert course. They rewrote the acoustics afterward.”
I blink. “That sounds… chaotic.”
Grau thumbs his fork on the tabletop, amused. “Chaos is merely structure you haven’t yet appreciated.”
And just like that, the tension loosens. A little.
I laugh — small, incredulous, but real.
I want to report him forcharm.
Maybe that should be illegal.
“What do you do when you’re not rewriting lounges to fit your philosophical musings?” I ask, leaning forward a smidge, curious despite myself.
He lifts his drink when it arrives — dark swirl in a crystalline glass — and takes a slow sip. The liquid glows faintly under the lighting, like black ink caught in firelight.
“Drink bad drinks,” he says. “Collect bounties. Purposely lose at cards to see who cheats. Then hunt them and let them go because it’s funnier that way.”
I snort. “You have a weird definition of humor.”
“Only the refined kind,” he says, eyes glinting.
And despite myself… I chuckle.
The solar flares hit my tongue — bright, tart, with a sting at the end that makes me blink and warm from the inside out. He watches every reaction — my lips, my eyes, the way my shoulders loosen when the taste settles.
It’s unsettling, in a good way.
We talk about business. NotCY8 business— not spreadsheets and crises and creditors — but work as inwhat we do with our days.He doesn’t dodge the fact that he kills for credits. He says it casually, like it’s the same thing as mowing a lawn, but his eyes flicker with something else — pride? disinterest? disdain? I can’t decide which, but I notice. And I wonder.
“You ever get tired of it?” I ask.
“Of what?” he says.
“Killing. Bounty hunting. The… whole thing.”
He swirls his Black Sun. “Tired? No. It’s like asking if fire gets tired of burning.”
“Right… but burnout?”
He cocks his head. “Burnout implies boredom. Boredom is a luxury I can’t afford.”
There’s a pause.
And in that pause, just for an instant, I see something in him that isn’t layered or armored or veneered in humor.
Just a flicker of… restlessness.
