Page 137 of Red Scale Daddy
The Reapers comply immediately, releasing my arms and stepping back without hesitation.
I do not move.
“Walk,” Throgg says.
I step forward onto the central platform, keeping my posture straight, my breathing even, my expression controlled. Every instinct I have is screaming to react, to lash out, to demand, to grieve, but none of those responses serve me here.
I will not waste what remains of my agency.
Throgg circles me slowly.
His gaze is clinical at first, evaluating physical condition, injury, posture. Then it lingers longer, shifting into something more calculating, more personal.
“You are smaller than I expected,” he says.
“And you are less impressive than your ship suggests.”
One of the Reapers shifts slightly behind me.
Throgg does not react.
Instead, he tilts his head, studying me with renewed interest.
“You watched your companion die,” he says.
The words strike with surgical precision.
I do not flinch.
“Yes.”
“No display of grief.”
“I am occupied.”
“With what?”
“Survival.”
His expression changes again, subtly, something sharpening behind the stillness.
“That is correct,” he says. “You are.”
He steps closer.
The air between us tightens.
“I have options for you,” he continues. “Some of them are less… intellectually demanding than others.”
I meet his gaze directly.
“Then choose wisely.”
A pause.
Long enough to carry weight.
His eyes narrow slightly, not in anger, but in consideration.
