Page 92 of Ravaged By the Reaper

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I look at him slowly, one brow rising.

“She’s… different,” he says, voice uncertain. “Not like the others. Not soft.”

“No,” I say, voice low. “She’s not.”

He swallows.

“Some think she’s dangerous.”

I grin.

“Sheisdangerous.”

He blinks. Hesitates. “So why…?”

I take a step forward.

He flinches. Just a little.

“She wears my collar,” I say, slow and deliberate. “Not because I own her. Because Irespecther.”

Another step.

“She stands aboardmyship,” I continue, voice dark and full. “Not as a trophy. Not as a trick. But as my equal.”

I let the weight of it settle over him like a lead blanket.

“Anyone who forgets that…”

Bloodfont hums.

“…can discuss it with me personally.”

Talen bows. Quick. Low. “Understood, sir.”

I turn away before I gut the point too hard.

Let them talk.

Let them guess.

The Widowmaker feels like home. But not in the way it used to. Not just metal and death and the hum of engines beneath my bones.

Now, it feels like potential.

Like partnership.

Like purpose.

And if the crew doesn’t understand it yet?

They will.

They always do.

The Widowmaker’shull still thrums like a beast recovering from battle, but now there’s a new rhythm—one threaded with purpose, sharpened edges of ambition. I find myself walking thedecks quieter, not because I’m fading, but because I’m watching. Watching her.

Amara adapts faster than any human—or Reaper—I’ve ever known.

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