Control. Order. Structure.
These are the things I hold sacred—the things I claw back into my hands like rope from a storm tide. I enter the Ministry prep room with the posture of a blade, datapad in hand, blazer sharp, hair once again sculpted to an uncompromising twist.
This time, I come armed.
Not just with outlines and depositions. I’ve got follow-up questions carved into my mind like talons. I’m not letting this spiral again. He’ll talk. I’ll record. That’s all this is.
Then the door opens.
He’s late. And worse, he’s dressed like he just rolled out of some backroom shakedown. Black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the fabric clinging to muscle like it was grown there. No tie. No jacket. Just raw, coiled threat in humanoid form.
And gods help me—I feel it again.
He sprawls in the chair like a king on a lazy throne, eyes glittering red under the low Ministry fluorescents. I don’t sit.
“Cutting it close, Rexx,” I snap, the datapad already glowing to life in my palm.
“Had to wring out the blood from my shirt.” He grins lazily. “Traffic was murder.”
I don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, I launch into my list. Names, sightings, timestamps. I hammer him with questions like I’m pinning down a rogue star. And for a while… it works.
He answers. Crisp. Detailed. Eerily compliant.
But then something flickers.
A timeline doesn’t match. The location of the Varaxx lieutenant during the last ambush doesn’t line up with his earlier statements. It’s subtle. A misstep. But I catch it.
I zero in. “You said he was at the Spire Club. But the prior record had him flagged entering the Luma Tower before the attack. Which is it?”
A pause. A twitch at the corner of his jaw.
And then he leans in.
Slowly. Quietly. Dangerously.
“You want these people behind bars or not?” he growls, low and guttural, like steel scraping over bone.
My stomach clenches—but I don’t retreat.
“Not at the expense of truth,” I say, voice cold. “You don’t get to rewrite facts because they suit your theater.”
His eyes narrow. For a moment, he’s not human. Not even Reaper. He’srage,given form and teeth.
The silence stretches so thin it could snap.
But I don’t blink.
And finally he exhales. A sound somewhere between a sigh and a snarl. He leans back, rubs a hand over his jaw.
“You’ve got bigger balls than most of my crew,” he mutters. There’s a curl of something dark, maybe admiration, in his voice.
I arch a brow. “Thanks. I think.”
He smirks. “Meant as a compliment.”
I don’t answer.
Because the room still feels like it’s crackling. Because he let me see what’s under that polished predator’s skin for a moment—and part of me didn’t run.
