Page 17 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
But I’m not calling them.
I’m not going home yet.
I’m not ready to step back into that cold, empty penthouse with the unanswered reports and the hollow echo of my father’s voice buried in the walls.
“Nice night,” Grau says.
His voice cuts through the hum of the city like a slow-moving blade — not sharp, just heavy. Grounding.
“It is,” I murmur.
We walk in silence for a while. Around us, the city flows — hovercars skim through the elevated lanes above, their underbellies flashing gold and teal as they pass. Somewhere a few levels down, music leaks from an open terrace. Low. Melancholy. Someone’s saxophone heart bleeding into the night.
I sneak a glance at him.
He walks like he owns the ground, but doesn’t need to prove it. Like if the walkway decided to evaporate under us, he’d still be standing, just… somewhere else. Untouched.
His hands are bare now. I hadn’t noticed until this moment. Black leather gloves tucked away. And his fingers — claws, really — flex occasionally like he’s keeping them in check. Or like they’re waiting for something.
He hasn’t spoken again. I don’t know if it’s because he’s giving me space or because words just aren’t necessary to him. Maybe both.
“Do you always walk your dates home?” I ask.
He glances down at me, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Only when they look like they might vanish the second I look away.”
That makes me smile — a real one this time. A smile that doesn’t feel like a PR move or an obligation.
“Smart. I’m known for my tactical retreats,” I say.
He snorts. “That what you call CEO disappearances now?”
“Tactical exits. Preferably with smoke bombs.”
We round a bend, stepping up a tiered incline that opens onto a small overlook. The city yawns out in front of us like a living circuit board — gold veins of traffic, crystalline towers, floating billboards looping the same lux-ads on infinite repeat.
We stop there.
Not on purpose. We just… stop.
“Used to think places like this were fairy tales,” Grau says after a minute. His tone is low. Not wistful, exactly, but edged with something rougher. Regret maybe.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
He shrugs. “A dust trench outside Tarn’s Reach. Half-dome. Ration cores. Gravity lag. You wouldn’t have liked it.”
“Try me,” I say.
He looks over at me — not with amusement this time. Just quiet curiosity. “You ever sleep next to a wall heater that shorts out every twelve hours?”
“No.”
“Ever use powdered synth-rice that expired three cycles ago?”
“Also no.”
“Ever watch your neighbor sell their daughter to a militia because it meant two more weeks of water?”
My chest tightens.
