Page 112 of Reaper Said Mine

I keep my eyes on Dawson. “Careful.”

“No, you be careful,” Dawson snaps. “You wanted the assignment. You got it. You wanted access. You got more access than anyone in the galaxy. And what do I have? No full interview package, no personal exclusive, no emotional reaction segment, no clear footage of the two of you together, and a mountain of unusable procedural nonsense about creditor pools.”

“It is not unusable.”

“It is if nobody clicks it.”

“There it is.”

He leans closer to his camera. “Do not take that tone with me from a pirate station while you are sitting beside the pirate.”

Gnash smiles.

It is not a comforting expression.

Dawson sees enough of it to swallow, but vanity drives him forward. “The network needs a headline by end cycle. The angle is obvious. Survivor journalist wins access to monstrous warlord, discovers forbidden bond, risks career and safety for the interview no one else could get. We build from there.”

“No.”

Dawson blinks. “Excuse me?”

“No.”

“Ursa, I am not asking.”

“I’m aware. That’s why I’m refusing.”

His face flushes. In the newsroom behind him, someone moves out of frame quickly, as if they have sensed incoming shrapnel. “You will file the personal angle.”

“I will file verified reporting on the negotiations, the political pressures surrounding Guyver Station, and evidence of covert financial interference once that evidence is corroborated.”

“God save me from earnest little martyrs with compads,” he mutters. “You have no idea what you’re throwing away.”

“I know exactly what I’m refusing to manufacture.”

“Manufacture?” he says, voice rising. “The man publicly claimed you.”

“The event happened. It can be reported with context. It is not a license to turn a diplomatic crisis into a romance scandal for engagement metrics.”

His eyes cut toward Gnash, then back to me. “Are you compromised?”

The word lands differently because it is not entirely unfair.

I breathe through the hit. “My relationship to the subject will be disclosed transparently.”

“Relationship,” Dawson repeats, pouncing. “Good. Excellent. Say that again on camera with softer lighting.”

“No.”

“You are making this difficult because you enjoy being difficult.”

“I am making this difficult because the truth is difficult, and you keep trying to put glitter on it.”

His mouth hardens. “Let me explain your situation since proximity to bone spurs has apparently damaged your judgment. You work for me. Your access, your upload privileges, your hazard pay, your legal cover, and your ability to call yourself an IHC correspondent all pass through my desk. If you bury the most marketable part of this story under a pile of financial records, I will pull you from the assignment.”

The room goes silent except for the hum of data cores.

Gnash shifts beside me, one controlled movement that feels like a storm front reaching the horizon.