Page 101 of Alien Soldier's Heir

He knew.

Heknows.

Every test. Every "perfect" run. It’s a lie built on top of a disaster waiting to tear us apart.

Then I see it.

Another tab.

Mission manifest.

Scheduled for tomorrow. 0700 hours.

Payload: Aerial Scout Frame 09C.

Tag:Life support concealed – cargo designation 'N.C.’

My initials.

He's not sending a drone through.

He's sendingme.

I stare at the entry.

Hands trembling.

That bastard was going to launch me into the wormhole—alive—pretending I was cargo. Masking the life signs. Like I’m just another container of equipment to be fired off into cosmic uncertainty while everyone drinks morning caf and pats themselves on the back for theoretical progress.

And I wouldn’t even have a chance to scream.

The door behind me hisses open.

I barely have time to turn.

Stark steps through like he owns the night.

Cool.

Polished.

Predator calm.

His voice is honeyed poison. “Curiosity’s always been your weakness.”

I reach for the alert button on the console.

But I never touch it.

He moves fast—faster than I thought he could.

Something snaps against my neck. White-hot pain explodes across my spine, short-circuiting thought. My muscles lock.

Suddenly, darkness.

Time skips.

Sound warps.