Page 136 of Red Scale Daddy
I do not resist.
Not because I cannot.
Because resistance without leverage is wasted motion, and I have already lost more than I can afford to lose through impulse.
Dux’s face tries to push its way back into my thoughts.
I do not allow it.
Not yet.
I file it away.
Later.
If there is a later.
We move through a series of bulkhead doors that open in sequence as we approach, each one sealing behind us with a sound that feels too final. The Reapers maintain formationaround me, not hurried, not tense, simply efficient. I note their spacing, their weapon placement, the rhythm of their movement. I catalog everything I can because the alternative is thinking about the empty space where he should still be.
We stop.
A door opens.
“Enter,” one of them says.
I step through.
The chamber beyond is larger than I expect, circular, with a central platform and elevated consoles arranged along the perimeter. The lighting is dim but deliberate, casting long shadows that stretch toward the center like something reaching inward. At the far end, a figure stands with his back to me, tall, broad-shouldered, dressed not in uniform armor but in something more tailored—functional, but chosen.
He turns as I enter.
His face is not what I expect.
There is no grotesque distortion, no visible mutation, no overt sign of monstrosity. He looks almost human at a glance, which makes the differences sharper when they reveal themselves. His eyes are wrong—too steady, too deliberate, as if they have learned how to mimic attention rather than possessing it naturally. The lines of his face hold a stillness that suggests control rather than calm.
He studies me.
Not quickly.
Not carelessly.
His gaze moves over me with measured precision, taking in the blood on my temple, the scorch marks on my sleeve, the way I hold myself despite the restraints imposed on me moments ago.
“You are Roma Larson,” he says.
“Yes.”
His voice is deep, controlled, and carries an undercurrent of something that does not quite belong to any single emotion.
“I am Throgg,” he continues.
“I did not ask.”
“No,” he says, a faint hint of something like amusement touching the corner of his mouth. “You did not.”
His eyes move again, slower this time, assessing.
“Remove the restraints,” he says.
