Page 3 of Reaper Said Mine

Murmurs move through the room.

I stare at the station image. "You're assigning me to Guyver."

"I am assigning you to fail at Guyver," he says brightly. "There is an important distinction."

"Not to me."

"It should be. We have sent three senior correspondents, two former military analysts, and one negotiation specialist whose ego still has not recovered. Gnash refused all of them. He does not give interviews. He does not recognize IHC press credentials. He does not care about public relations because the public already thinks he is a monster, and from what I can tell, he rather enjoys the branding."

"Then why send anyone?"

"Because every other serious outlet is sending someone, and I refuse to let Nebula Nine or LeagueWire pretend they own the story. You will go, you will request access, you will be denied, and you will file color pieces from the docks until the negotiations collapse or succeed without you."

"No."

Dawson arches one brow. "No?"

"No, that is not what I will file."

A few heads turn toward me with open disbelief now. Bellamy's mouth twitches as though he wants to warn me and congratulate me at the same time.

I step closer to the holo-display. The station's light washes over my hands. "If you send me to Guyver Station, I will secure the interview."

Dawson laughs again, but this time it has an edge. "With Gnash."

"Yes."

"The Reaper warlord."

"Yes."

"The man who allegedly tore a Combine executive's security detail apart in a docking tunnel and mailed the survivors back in cargo containers."

"Allegedly matters."

"Not when the cargo containers arrived."

"If he wanted everyone dead, why were there survivors?"

The question slips out before I can dress it up for the room. Dawson stops smiling. Around us, the newsroom noise beyond the glass walls keeps moving, feeds updating, producers arguing, anchors warming their voices, all of IHC-Now grinding forward on urgency and appetite.

I tap my compad and pull up the first of several reports I have already read twice. "Every profile says Gnash is impulsive. Every trade report says tariffs through his territory are consistent, predictable, and enforced without random seizure. Every military brief describes Guyver as unstable. Every shipping concern quietly admits traffic through that corridor has become safer since he took control. That is not the profile of a mindless butcher."

Dawson stares at me. "You have already been researching him."

"I research stories before I ask for them."

"You were told last month this desk was not yours."

"I was told no. That is not the same thing."

His jaw shifts, but he keeps his temper behind his teeth. "You really think you can sit across from that creature and ask questions nobody else can ask?"

"I think powerful men get careless when they assume I am either decorative or doomed."

That earns more than one uncomfortable glance around the table. Dawson's face tightens with the faintest flicker of recognition. He knows I have included him in that sentence. He also knows objecting would make him look like a fool.

"Fine," he says.