Chapter 7 Grau
GRAU
Idid not come to this rough and tumble establishment to fight. I came for information and maybe to prove a point..
But of course the tavern still smells like trouble just waiting to explode.
The place is half-lit, half-screaming, and fully chaotic — the kind of joint where the air tastes like burnt synth-meat, spilled liquor, and the sharp tang of tension that lingers like a second skin.
Smoke coils from cracked circuits overhead, and the low murmur of danger hums beneath every laugh and clink of glass.
The tavern’s patrons are eager to see violence. They breathe it like oxygen.
I walk in and all of them freeze.
Not because I’m here.
But because I’m not doing what they expect.
They expect violence.
A Reaper in a tavern means trouble. Always.
But I’m here to celebrate.
I let the door slide shut behind me. The hinges squeal like a wounded animal, and—predictably—the nearest thugs turn their heads, eyes narrowing like they’ve just smelled blood in the air.
“Grau,” one of them murmurs. “Trouble walks in.”
I ignore him.
Barrel-aged wood and cracked holo-ads greet me.
The lighting flickers — weird pulsations that make shadows dance like they’re alive.
And the smell… it’s sweeter than the brood pits of Lost Breach Station: roasted roots, iron-bitter bloodwine, burned ozone, and the lingering musk of alien spices no chef in civilized space should ever touch.
I take it in like it’s home.
Because it almost is.
I step up to the bar.
A Fratvoyan bartender — three arms, green mottled skin, segmented eyes like obsidian beads — starts wiping a glass with a rag so filthy it probably predates the Combine’s earliest records.
He looks up.
His pupils adjust when he sees me.
His rag stops mid-wipe.
Then he clears his throat.
“You looking for trouble, Grau?” he asks, three voices speaking in staggered synchronicity, as if each arm has its own opinion.
I smile — slow, low, one of those smiles that doesn’t quite reach my eyes but sets the room on edge anyway.
“No,” I say.
He blinks — once, twice.
“You sure? You don’t look like you just came here to drink.”
I lean on the bar — one massive hand settling over the wood like a statement.
“I’m celebrating.”
He chokes on his breath. Literal choking — one of his mouths hiccups.
“Celebrate?” he croaks, incredulous. “Since when do Reapers celebrate anything that doesn’t involve flames and screaming?”
“Tonight,” I say, “I’m celebrating the fact that I found my mate.”
The word hits the room like a shockwave.
“Your… mate?” the bartender stammers, three sets of eyes now fixed on me. “As in… as in your reco—”
I cut him off with a laugh — low and amused, like ripping a tooth free without anesthesia.
“Yes,” I say. “My mate.”
Silence.
Not the kind that trembles with expectation.
Not the kind that calls for weapons.
Just… still.
He leans back against the bar slowly, tentacles twitching like he’s not sure if he should applaud or pass out.
“Grau,” he says, voice still unsteady, “you’re the last living Reaper anyone expected to enjoy something that doesn’t end in a riot.”
I sip my drink — strong, smoky, built to punch straight through bone and intuition — and savor the burn.
“It’s not ideal,” I tell him, “but it’s absolutely real.”
He studies me, eyes narrowing.
“You never talk about that,” he mutters, half to himself.
“Most people never find their mate,” I say. “Even fewer get to recognize them when they do.”
He blinks at me — that strange, non-human blink that looks like gears shifting in the back of his head.
“So,” he says slowly, “you’re… happy?”
I lift my glass. The liquid inside reflects the wavering tavern lights like molten carbon stars.
“Happier than I’ve been in decades.”
He just stares at me — stunned in a way that’s almost human.
Then he laughs.
Not mockingly.
Genuinely.
“Congratulations, Reaper,” he says, raising his own glass. “I thought the gods hated us. Seems they have a wicked sense of humor.”
“I wouldn’t call it humor,” I reply. “More… irony.”
He studies me again, slower this time. Thoughtfully. As if the sentiment he’d anticipated — a grunt of approval, a growl of anticipation, a smear of philosophical nihilism — has been replaced by something utterly foreign: contentment.
In a Reaper.
Here.
Of all places.
“Tell me,” he says, leaning in, “about this mate of yours.”
I don’t hesitate.
The words tumble out like something I’ve been saving up for centuries, like arid land finally finding rain.
“She’s human,” I say. “Blonde. Blue-eyed. Fragile in appearance, but sharp — like a blade made of light and instinct. She owns a company in Helios Combine. CY8.”
The bartender whistles — a sound too breathy and amused for someone who usually sees only mischief and blood.
“Corporate? That’s… unexpected.”
“She’s in trouble,” I continue, ignoring his tone. “Not mortal danger yet — nothing that screams bounty or ambush. But corporate politics in Helios… more lethal than any battlefield I’ve fought.”
He frowns. “How so?”
I lean back. My gaze drifts to the room — brimming with smugglers, ex-soldiers, grifters, and a pair of enhanced Mercs playing cards in the corner — and I feel a curious comfort in the chaos. Almost like it’s speaking to me.
“People die for profits,” I say. “People kill for advantage. Backstabbing here makes the Badlands look like a tea party.”
His three eyes go wide.
“My uncle Betskar was a banker,” he mutters. “He’d have nightmares about that.”
“Her world is different.” I let out a rueful grunt. “More refined. More subtle. But just as ruthless.”
The bartender sets down his rag, then his glass, then places a mug in front of me without asking.
“Then watch her,” he says, surprising me.
“What?”
He crosses his arms — one set of arms, then another. “You found someone meaningful. Someone you actually give a damn about. That’s rarer than a dead star burning bright. You don’t let that go easy.”
I raise an eyebrow, suspicious.
He smirks. “You don’t have to be in her office every hour. But keep an eye on the shadows. Corporate edges aren’t always bullet-shaped. Sometimes they’re ink and contracts.”
I let that settle. Then take a sip of the bitter brew — dark as midnight, with a smoky aftertaste that curls around my senses.
“Grau,” he says again, in a tone that’s halfway between warning and admiration, “you’re the happiest I’ve ever seen you not angry. That’s terrifying.”
I laugh.
“No apocalypse today,” I say.
The bartender chuckles.
“Just don’t let the assassins have all the fun,” he says.
I smirk back. “No promises.”
But beneath the grin — beneath the banter and the rye-hot liquor — I feel a twist of resolve.
Protecting Yara is going to require more than charm and passion.
More than presence and patience.
It means watching her world — the clean suits, the polished floors, the smiles that hide teeth — the way I watch a battlefield before the first shot is fired.
And if that means loitering in seedy taverns, taking unsolicited advice, and building a network of shadows so wide even corporate predators think twice?
So be it.
I drain the last of my drink.
The smoky sweetness burns down my throat and settles in my gut.
I set the mug down with finality.
“My mate,” I murmur. “Is worth watching.”
The bartender nods — serious now, not joking.
“Just don’t forget,” he says. “Sometimes the sharpest knives wear silk collars.”
I nod back — the kind of nod that means I understand, and I’m already thinking ten steps ahead.
I step out of the tavern into the night.
The air is cold against my skin — but I’m warmer than ever.
I found her.
And I will watch over her.
Even if it kills me.
The first time I see the CY8 building in daylight, I laugh.
It’s glass and chrome and too many goddamn windows. Like a hollow tooth polished to gleam, pretending there's no rot inside. The kind of place meant to distract you from the fact that its guts are being eaten alive.
But I know rot when I smell it.
And I smell it the moment I step close.
I don’t go in right away. I spend two full days watching. From rooftops. From the sidewalk. From the inside of a hover freight parked across the street with fake credentials and a coffee cup I never touch.
Yara’s name is on the building. Her fingerprints are all over the upper floor security algorithms. But she’s not running the show.
Not really.
She’s trying to.
But the system is built to grind her down.
Inside, every second person is too slow.
Too nervous. Too good at smiling while doing nothing.
The holopanels flicker on a delay in the main reception—low priority maintenance tickets left to rot.
Expense accounts inflated and poorly hidden.
I watch a mid-level exec ‘accidentally’ leak a memo to a competitor.
It’s not incompetence.
It’s sabotage.
Corporate warfare dressed up like confusion.
Like the lights that always take an extra second to respond to Yara’s biometric scan.
Like the way her schedule is always packed with redundant meetings that end just as something important goes wrong somewhere else.
I’ve seen it before. In Syndicate territory, they call it ‘slow bleed.’ Death by convenience.
But the worst part?
The man behind it has a name.
Jonathan Tidball.
He looks like nothing. A soft man in a too-tailored suit. Warm eyes. Easy voice. The kind of man who offers you tea while slipping poison into the cup.
And she trusts him.
Worse—she leans on him.
He’s always there. Hovering just a few steps behind, smiling like a goddamn priest at a funeral. Always ready with advice. Always too ready.
My instincts scream.
Every time he puts a hand on her shoulder, I have to stop myself from taking it off at the wrist.
But I don’t act yet.
I dig.
Quietly.
Systematically.
I hit the underworld channels. The whisper webs. The black-market data nodes that don’t ask who you are as long as your credits bleed clean.
I pull up contracts.
Offshore subsidiaries.
Shady payments that bounce between dummy shells before disappearing.
And what I find?
It confirms everything.
Tidball’s been bleeding her company dry for years—slowly enough not to be noticed, fast enough to leave her vulnerable. He’s orchestrated delays in shipments, rerouted funds, rerouted loyalties.
He’s not just undermining her.
He’s setting her up.
To fail.
To fall.
And she has no idea.
I stare at the blinking dossier, my fists clenched tight enough to crack bone.
This isn’t just about control.
It’s about timing.
He wants her so beaten, so cornered, that when he finally makes his move, she’ll thank him for the knife.
But he didn’t count on me.
I close the feed.
I lean back.
And I start thinking about how much of his world I’ll need to burn before she sees what he really is.
Now I have to convince Yara, though.
She doesn’t want to hear it.
I can see it before I speak—etched into the lines around her mouth, the tight hold she has on her coffee cup, the way her shoulders square before I even open mine.
We're on her balcony, high above the noise, glass walls glinting with the last light of day. The city glows like something alive below, a beast breathing neon and ambition. I can feel the static buzz of the security grid around us, taste ozone on the wind.
Yara leans against the railing, looking out over the skyline, but I know she’s not seeing it. She’s somewhere else. Drowning in spreadsheets. In decisions. In weight too heavy for one human body to bear.
She doesn’t turn around when I say it.
“I don’t trust Tidball.”
Silence.
Her grip tightens on the mug. A breath escapes her, sharp and careful.
“I know you two will not really get along,” she says lightly, but it’s forced. She’s performing. “You come from… very different backgrounds.”
“I come from war,” I reply. “He comes from treachery. Those are not the same thing.”
She finally turns, chin high. Eyes cool.
“You don’t know him.”
“I know what sabotage smells like,” I growl. “And your company reeks of it.”
Something flickers behind her eyes. Not doubt. Not yet. Just irritation. Offense.
She crosses her arms, that boardroom posture sliding over her like armor.
“Jonathan has been with my father longer than I’ve been alive. He’s stood by me every step of the way.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Right into the pit.”
Her mouth tightens. “I don’t appreciate the implication.”
I take a step closer, not looming, not threatening—but solid. Present. Letting her feel the weight of my conviction.
“He’s bleeding you, Yara. Slow. Quiet. I’ve seen it. I’ve tracked it.”
“You’ve been… what? Hacking my systems? Spying on my staff?”
“Protecting you.”
She flinches like I slapped her.
“I didn’t ask for that,” she says, voice low, shaking.
“No,” I say. “You didn’t.”
She stares at me, breathing hard. I can hear the hitch in it. Not fear. Frustration. That fine line where pride meets panic.
“You don’t understand this world,” she whispers. “It’s not the Badlands, Grau. You can’t just tear out the problem and call it solved.”
“Maybe your world needs a little tearing.”
She turns away from me again.
Her shoulders are trembling. With rage? With doubt? I don’t know.
I want to reach for her. To shake her. To make her see.
But I don’t.
Not this time.
“I know what this is,” she says, her voice barely audible. “You’re trying to be protective. That’s sweet. Really. But I’ve got this.”
I bite down on a thousand things I could say.
That she’s too close to see it.
That her instincts have been poisoned by grief, by loyalty, by history.
That she’s being played like a damn harp.
Instead, I nod once.
“Okay.”
She turns, surprised.
“That’s it?”
“You’re the boss,” I say. “Your show. Your call.”
Her shoulders loosen slightly, like she’s relieved I backed off.
But she shouldn’t be.
Because I haven’t.
Not really.
I step close—close enough to smell the citrus note of her shampoo, to see the way her pupils flare slightly at my nearness.
“But if he’s the one driving this bus off a cliff,” I murmur, “you’d better believe I’ll be the bastard grabbing the wheel.”
Her lips part. A protest half-formed. But I’m already walking away.
Because I meant what I said.
If she won’t protect herself, I will.
Even if she never thanks me for it.
Even if she hates me for it.
Because protecting her isn’t about gratitude.
It’s instinct.
It’s need.
I take the stairs three at a time, my mind already racing through contingencies, contacts, back doors and blacklists.
There’s a line between trust and blindness. She hasn’t seen it yet.
But I have.
And I’m going to burn that bastard off her map before he gets the chance to ruin her.
No matter what it takes.