Frieza sat beside the medical bed, one leg crossed over the other, a thin book balanced effortlessly in one hand.
Icha Icha Paradise.
A book only men of culture appreciated—or so Frieza had concluded after finishing it twice and judging the galaxy accordingly.
He turned a page with a quiet flick of his claw.
The room was dim, lit by the soft glow of medical panels and the steady hum of advanced healing technology. Broly lay on the bed, wrapped in bandages from shoulder to wrist, chest rising and falling slowly. His injuries were real, but controlled. Frieza had been careful. Pain was a tool—death was not the goal.
A faint rustle broke the silence.
Frieza did not look up at first.
Then he felt it.
Broly's ki stirred—weak, unsteady, but conscious.
The page paused mid-turn.
Broly's eyes opened.
Slowly, stiffly, he pushed himself upright, wincing as his muscles protested. He looked around the unfamiliar room, confusion dulling the usual edge of aggression in his gaze.
Then he saw Frieza.
Calm. Seated. Reading.
The contrast hit harder than any blow.
Broly looked down at his own hands. Thick bandages wrapped his palms and wrists, fingers trembling as he flexed them. He expected pain—real pain—but it wasn't there. Just soreness. Healing-pod soreness.
"…I'm alive," he muttered.
"Yes," Frieza said without looking up. "Very observant."
Broly swallowed.
He searched his body with instinct, expecting something broken, something ruined. But nothing vital was damaged. No shattered core. No torn organs. Just exhaustion.
That realization hurt more than the fight.
He clenched his fists.
For the first time in his life, Broly didn't feel rage.
He felt want.
"I… wasn't enough," he said quietly.
The words were heavy. Honest. Unfamiliar.
Frieza closed the book.
Not sharply. Not dismissively.
He placed it on the side table with deliberate care.
Then he turned his chair slightly to face Broly.
"You survived," Frieza said. "That already places you above most beings in the universe."
Broly didn't look up.
His shoulders slumped, massive frame folding inward on itself. "But I still lost."
Frieza studied him for a long moment.
Then he spoke—not as an emperor, not as a tyrant—but as something rarer.
"Stand proud, Broly," Frieza said. "You were strong."
Broly's fingers tightened around the sheets.
But he still didn't lift his head.
Frieza sighed softly.
"So," he said, "we're doing this the hard way."
He raised his voice just enough to carry.
"Celine. Come in."
The door slid open.
A petite figure stepped inside—green skin, pale white hair falling past her shoulders, eyes sharp but cautious. She wore the uniform of Frieza's forces, tailored, clean, marked with insignia she had earned rather than borrowed.
Celine.
She paused briefly, then bowed. "Lord Frieza."
Frieza waved a hand. "At ease."
Broly glanced up, confused.
Celine's eyes flicked toward him. She tilted her head slightly, curiosity mixed with something gentler—recognition, perhaps. She had heard the stories. Everyone had.
Frieza leaned back. "Broly, this is Celine."
Celine straightened. "It's… nice to meet you."
Broly nodded awkwardly, unsure what to do with that tone. People usually looked at him with fear—or not at all.
Frieza observed the exchange with quiet satisfaction.
Loyalty was not just forged through fear.
It was reinforced through anchors.
Celine had been one of those fortunate accidents.
When her sisterCheelai had stolen a Galactic Patrol vehicle and vanished, she hadn't meant to leave anything behind—but wallets had a way of being inconveniently traceable. The Patrol hadn't found Cheelai.
They found Celine instead.
The officer in charge had been corrupt. Cruel. He had smiled while making demands that had nothing to do with justice.
Celine escaped.
Barely.
With nowhere left to run and the galaxy already whispering of a changed empire—fair laws, stable worlds, prosperity without chaos.
she made a choice.
She came to Frieza.
Frieza, ever observant, had already instructed his forces to watch for individuals like her. Capable. Cornered. Smart enough to choose survival over pride But more importantly petite and small green skinned girl with short white hair.
But instead of Cheelai she had been found.
She had been trained.
Guided.
Conditioned—not harshly, not crudely—but efficiently.
Loyalty, when treated properly, grew roots.
Now she stood here.
Frieza gestured toward Broly. "He will be training again soon. When he does, you'll be nearby. Support. Observation. Conversation."
Celine blinked. "Conversation?"
Frieza smiled faintly. "Yes. He's terrible at it."
Broly frowned. "Hey—"
Frieza rose smoothly from his seat.
"Rest," he said, already turning away. "Both of you."
He paused at the door.
"Oh—and Broly?"
Broly looked up.
Frieza glanced back over his shoulder, eyes calm, unreadable.
"Wanting to be stronger," he said, "is the first sign that you're no longer a beast."
Then he left.
The door slid shut.
The room felt quieter—but not emptier.
Celine pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down, folding her hands in her lap.
"So," she said gently, "you really fought him for a whole day?"
Broly exhaled slowly.
"…Yeah."
She smiled—a small, genuine one.
"Then you're already terrifying."
For the first time since waking up, Broly almost smiled back.
---
Frieza did not need to look at Celine to think about her.
He rarely did.
His mind worked faster than his eyes, faster than the room, faster than the moment itself. While Broly struggled with bandages and pride, while Celine sat politely at the bedside, Frieza's thoughts drifted—quiet, sharp, and exact.
Celine…
Cheelai's sister.
That alone made her interesting.
Cheelai had been chaos wrapped in charm. Impulsive. Clever, but sloppy. The kind of woman who survived on instinct and luck rather than foresight. Useful in bursts. Dangerous in proximity. She had the audacity to steal from the Galactic Patrol and the poor judgment to leave a trail behind.
Celine was different.
Frieza had noticed it immediately when the files crossed his desk.
Same species. Same green skin. Same sharp eyes.
But where Cheelai ran, Celine waited.
Where Cheelai reacted, Celine observed.
Where Cheelai trusted her gut, Celine trusted patterns.
Frieza appreciated patterns.
When the Patrol tracked Cheelai's belongings back to her family, Frieza already knew how it would end.
Corrupt officers never missed an opportunity to feel powerful. They never settled for lawful solutions when cruelty was easier.
Celine had been offered a choice.
It had not been a fair one.
She ran anyway.
That, more than anything, earned Frieza's approval.
Not because she was brave—bravery was common and stupid—but because she was adaptive.
She understood the game had changed and chose the side that actually won.
When she presented herself to the Empire, she did not beg.
She asked questions.
That alone set her apart from ninety-nine percent of the galaxy.
Frieza remembered watching her training footage. How she learned quickly. How she listened. How she absorbed ideology not as blind faith, but as structure. Order. Stability. Purpose.
She did worship him.
But importantly she understood him.
That made her far more valuable.
And now she sat beside Broly.
That was not coincidence.
Frieza was very deliberate with proximity.
Broly was raw power. Emotional. Directionless without guidance. A weapon that could either devour itself or be aimed properly.
Celine was an anchor.
Not a leash—Frieza despised leashes.
They broke too easily.
She was a mirror. Someone close enough to ground Broly without challenging him, intelligent enough to speak when silence failed, and loyal enough that her presence reinforced Frieza's will without him needing to lift a finger.
Broly trusted strength.
He would trust Frieza because Frieza was absolute.
But trust built only on fear cracked under doubt and Celine was there to fill that gap.
And she would do it gladly.
Not because she was ordered to.
But because Frieza had given her something the galaxy never had.
Safety without weakness. Loyalty without humiliation. Purpose without chains.
Frieza allowed himself a small, private smile.
Cheelai had been a complication.
Celine was an investment.
And Frieza never invested poorly.
If Broly ever faltered, Celine would steady him.
If Broly ever questioned, Celine would remind him.
And if Broly ever turned against him—
Frieza's gaze flicked briefly toward the door, golden eyes cold.
—then Celine would pay the prize of broly betrayal.
That alone told him everything he needed to know.
Celine was exactly where she belonged.
And Broly, whether he realized it yet or not, was already being shaped—not just by Frieza's hand, but by the quiet, careful pieces Frieza placed around him.
That was how empires lasted.
Not through force alone—
—but through small harmless manipulations.
Because you know what they small manipulations goes a long way
---
Please drop more stones and comment so that l know your interested.
I don't want to write stories to ghosts.