Page 113 of Reaper Said Mine

I hold up a hand without looking at him.

To his credit, he stops.

The fact that he stops nearly breaks my composure.

I look at Dawson and feel, with startling clarity, how tired I am of men mistaking employment for ownership. He has had my career in his hands for years. He has squeezed it when convenient, fed it when profitable, and patted it like a dog whenever my trauma tested well. I have swallowed it because the work mattered. Because access mattered. Because if I endured enough condescension, maybe one day the story would outweigh the leash.

Now, staring at his polished face from a frozen archive room aboard Guyver Station, I finally understand something that should have been obvious sooner.

A leash does not become freedom because it is attached to a press credential.

“No,” I say again.

Dawson’s face goes still. “Think very carefully.”

“I am.”

“If you defy editorial direction, there will be consequences.”

“I know.”

“You think he can protect you from those?” Dawson gestures toward Gnash. “You think the warlord gives you a future in journalism? The second you stop being useful to him, you are another pretty human anecdote with bad judgment.”

Gnash’s growl shakes the table.

Dawson flinches despite the distance.

My voice comes out colder than I expected. “You do not get to pretend concern after spending twelve years mining my dead family for quarterly engagement spikes.”

For once, Dawson has no immediate answer.

I continue because stopping now would be cowardice. “You sent me here expecting failure. I got access. You wanted an interview. I got it. You wanted a headline. I found a conspiracy that may involve covert Combine interference in active protectorate negotiations. That is the story. Not my face. Not my bond. Not whatever soft-focus package lets viewers feel morally brave while learning nothing that threatens anyone powerful.”

His nostrils flare. “You self-righteous little⁠—”

“Finish that sentence carefully,” Gnash says.

His voice is quiet, and that makes it worse.

Dawson turns a brittle smile toward him. “Lord Gnash, this is an internal network matter.”

“No.”

Dawson stiffens. “Pardon?”

“She is a journalist conducting an investigation aboard my station. You have attempted to compromise that investigation by ordering distortion of facts for spectacle. That makes it my matter.”

“This is absurd. She is my employee.”

“She is not your property.”

The words cut through the room with such brutal simplicity that my throat tightens.

Dawson’s eyes flicker. He knows he cannot win a dominance contest with Gnash, even across a holo connection. He also knows I am watching him realize it.

He retreats to the weapon he understands best. “Ursa, final warning. File the package I requested, or I reassign the story.”

I look at him, really look, and the fear is there. Of course it is. I am not fearless. My career matters. My work matters. The girl from Horus IV clawed her way through grief, pity, training, and humiliation for the right to sit in rooms like this and ask questions that make powerful people sweat. Dawson can hurt me. He can discredit me. He can turn every professional rival into a committee of smug little vultures picking over the word compromised.