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The Director's Obsession - Phase 5

Character: Director Orson Krennic x F!ISB Agent

Summary: Director Orson Krennic keeps one ISB agent under his thumb, pulling her from lunches, stealing her sleep, and destroying three dates. The project demands everything. Or maybe his obsession demands more.

Word Count: 9,460

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Phase 1 , Phase 2 , Phase 3 , Phase 4 , Phase 5 , Phase 6 , Phase 7 , Phase 8 , Phase 9 , Phase 10 , Phase 11 , Phase 12 , Phase 13 , Phase 14 , Phase 15 , Phase 16 , Phase 17 , Phase 18 , Phase 19 , Phase 20 - END

A/N: The intimate moment is here!

Phase 5 : His Equal

The speeder glided beneath the towering lights of the Imperial Gala, slipping through the heart of Coruscant’s elite like a ghost in velvet. Outside, camera drones swarmed, flashing like artificial stars. The entrance was a spectacle of power and elegance—senators, admirals, aristocrats, and planetary governors moving like jeweled chess pieces across a grand marble board.

Inside the speeder, your hands rested tensely in your lap, fingers curled against the smooth fabric of your gown. It was the most exquisite thing you had ever worn. Deep obsidian blue, edged with silver threading that caught the light like fractured starlight. It hugged your form without apology, the bodice structured, the neckline sharp and modern. Your shoulders were bare, sculpted and elegant, exposed beneath the delicate sweep of the fabric that gathered at the spine and fell into a long, commanding train. It was more than a dress. It was a declaration. And Krennic had chosen it.

"We're late," you murmured, trying to keep the rising panic from tightening your throat.

Beside you, Director Krennic adjusted his cufflink with calm precision. His white uniform was immaculate, gleaming beneath the subtle interior lighting. Every detail was deliberate: the straight line of his collar, the subtle shine of his boots, the perfect alignment of his rank bar.

He did not look at you when he answered. "I made us late."

You turned toward him, brow furrowing. "You planned this."

At last, he met your eyes. That measured smile played at the corner of his mouth, refined and infuriating.

"Timing is everything," he said, voice silk and steel. "The last to arrive always own the room." His eyes swept over you, deliberate and slow. "And tonight, the room belongs to you."

Before you could reply, the door opened.

Krennic stepped out first, cape flaring with theatrical elegance as it caught the breeze. He turned, extending his hand to you with ceremonial calm. You took it, and the moment your heels touched the steps, a wall of flashes erupted. Camera drones burst into motion. Murmurs swept the grand plaza like a wave.

He guided you up the marble staircase, his arm linked with yours, posture impeccable. His steps were slow, deliberate, forcing every dignitary in the atrium to turn and look.

Inside, the Imperial elite turned like planets toward a gravity they couldn’t resist. Mon Mothma’s expression flickered. Senators whispered into gold-trimmed glasses. Officers stared too long.

"Is that Krennic?"

"Who’s the woman?"

"He never brings anyone."

"She’s the ISB’s propagandist?"

He leaned toward your ear, voice low and cool. "You hear them?"

"They’re all staring," you whispered back, breath shallow.

"Good," he said, barely moving his lips. "Let them. You are mine tonight. Let them see what perfection looks like when I make it."

His touch was refined. His tone was respectable. And yet, everything about him screamed claim. Not affection. Possession.

At the base of the grand staircase, two figures awaited: Governor Tarkin and Mas Amedda. Power incarnate.

Krennic bowed just enough to show protocol. "Governor. Chancellor. I’m honored by your presence."

Tarkin’s pale eyes narrowed as they settled on you. "You’ve brought… company. That’s unusual for you, Director."

Krennic didn’t flinch. His voice remained level, clear. "This is the architect of our public initiative. Her words have unified more systems than our fleets could reach. She is the reason the project finished ahead of schedule."

Mas Amedda turned his gaze to you, intrigued. "What makes your voice so persuasive, Agent?"

You met his eyes without faltering. "Because I’ve seen what chaos creates. Hope is fragile. Comfort is rare. What people crave is order. And order only exists when power is absolute."

Tarkin tilted his head, impressed. "A pragmatic view. I may have use for someone with your instincts."

Krennic’s smile was polite, but thin. "She’s not available."

You nearly sighed aloud. Even in public, his need to keep you close bordered on compulsive.

The orchestra swelled.

Krennic turned to you and extended his gloved hand. "Shall we?"

You placed your hand in his, and together, you stepped onto the floor. The dance was measured, elegant, slow. His hand rested on your waist, the other curled around yours. Every spin placed you at the room’s center. You were no longer his shadow. You were his announcement.

When the music faded, he led you toward the refreshment table. His hand did not leave your back. It moved lower. You allowed it.

A server offered two crystal flutes of Corellian wine. Krennic took both and passed one to you.

"You use me like a trophy," you muttered.

"My most precious trophy," he replied, voice even.

"You enjoy this far too much."

"I did not bring you here for small talk. They need to see who stands beside me. You frighten them more than I ever could."

"You are impossible."

"And yet you are still here."

You sipped your wine, trying to ignore the heat rising under your skin.

He watched you, calculating and calm.

"Enjoy this while you can," he said suddenly.

You raised a brow. "Why?"

"You will be promoted soon. That means…" He tilted his head, feigning neutrality. "You’ll lose a friend. A valuable one."

Before you could answer, a senator waved him down from across the hall.

Krennic gave a slow, courteous nod, his tone dry. "I must return to being congratulated."

His hand brushed your back again, a subtle squeeze—deliberate, firm. Not romantic. Strategic.

"I will return shortly."

And then, just like that, the Director of Imperial Advanced Weapons strolled into the crowd, perfectly poised, leaving behind the storm he had so carefully sculpted.

You stood still, wine in hand, gown gleaming like star-forged silk, with every eye in the room still pinned to you.

Just as he intended.

You finally exhaled, letting your shoulders fall, the weight of the evening temporarily softened—until you saw him.

Marlon.

He moved through the sea of dignitaries like a ripple of shadow, his eyes locked on you with predatory precision. Your stomach clenched. You turned your head, hoping the flicker of recognition had gone unnoticed, but his voice sliced clean through the swell of music and conversation.

"You look breathtaking tonight," he said, low and deliberate, each word dipped in venomous charm.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have the patience.

"Outside. Now."

The command left your mouth like a blade. You didn’t wait for a reply, already walking, weaving through the crowd toward the balcony. He followed. Of course he did.

You reached a shadowed alcove away from the eyes and ears of the Imperial elite. The city lights below flickered like a false constellation. You turned on him the moment you stopped.

"You shouldn’t be here."

"I came for you," he said, his voice still that same worn-out softness he had used when you first met. "You don’t belong with him. Look at yourself. He parades you like an ornament."

You crossed your arms. "Do not start. You knew what this was from the beginning."

"You’re smarter than this." He stepped closer, his tone shifting. "I can give you purpose. Real freedom. The Rebellion needs someone like you."

You scoffed. "And what? Become your tool instead of his? You were never honest with me, Marlon."

"I was honest about one thing," he said, his eyes narrowing. "I want you."

He reached for your arm. His fingers brushed your bare skin, trailing lower toward your waist.

You shoved him with force, but your heel caught on uneven stone. The stumble gave him just enough room to close the distance. He grabbed your wrist, desperation crackling in his voice.

"You’re only afraid because he owns you."

Your voice dropped, cold and unwavering.

"No. He doesn’t own me. He values me. He knows my worth."

There was a beat of silence, then a sharp crack. Marlon’s head snapped sideways as Krennic’s fist collided with his jaw.

Marlon staggered, clutching his face. Krennic stepped between you both, towering, composed, his white uniform pristine, his eyes aflame with cold fire. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

"Leave. While you are still breathing."

Marlon’s breath came heavy, teeth clenched, blood already on his lip. "This isn’t over."

Krennic didn’t even blink. His silence was louder than fury.

Marlon backed away, retreating into the shadows like a coward who had mistaken a diamond for glass.

Krennic stood still for a moment, restraining his breathing, then slowly turned to you. His hand found your waist, steadying you as your balance shifted.

"Enough excitement for one evening," he said quietly. "We’re leaving."

You nodded, but as you took a step, pain shot through your ankle.

"Orson," you gasped.

He halted immediately, eyes snapping to your face. In one smooth motion, he scooped you into his arms as though you weighed nothing, cradling you like something irreplaceable.

"What are you doing?" you whispered, breath catching.

"You’re hurt," he said, his tone gentler than you’d ever heard. "I do not tolerate seeing you in pain."

His grip was firm, protective, like the world might dare try again and he would strike it down.

Inside the speeder, he didn’t let go. Not right away. Not until you had caught your breath.

"You should have told me about that parasite," he said at last.

"I didn’t want to give him power," you murmured.

His voice dropped, dark and razor-edged. "No one should breathe near you without my approval. Let that be the last time someone tries."

Outside, near the walls of the gala plaza, Jung and Heert stood smoking, watching the speeder.

Jung exhaled slowly. "That escalated."

Heert nodded. "I thought ISB was brutal. But that? That was personal."

Across the city, in a dim underground chamber, Marlon slammed his fist against a metal table, his lip split and still bleeding.

"You lost control," Luthen snapped, his face colder than ice.

"I almost had her," Marlon growled.

"Almost got her killed," Luthen corrected. "You’re done. You’ll return to your sector and stay there. She’s not yours. Not your mission. Not anymore."

Marlon’s fists trembled. "This isn’t over."

Luthen didn’t flinch. "For your sake, it better be."

*******

The speeder halted outside your flat, lights dimming as the vehicle powered down. You didn’t move. Not because of pain, but because you were afraid your legs would betray you. Your ankle throbbed. Your head spun. Your chest… still burned from the chaos of the gala.

Krennic didn’t ask permission. He reached for you again and lifted you as though it was his right, not a kindness. His arms, strong and sure, wrapped around your back and beneath your knees, holding you like you weighed nothing at all. You pressed your hands against his chest. It's useless, half-hearted resistance.

"You don’t have to carry me every time," you muttered.

He didn’t answer. But the way he looked at you, the way his eyes lingered on your lips just a second too long, told you he wanted to.

Inside, your door slid open with a hiss. Lights flicked on automatically. The space welcomed you with silence.

Krennic stepped in like he owned it.

He carried you past the threshold, ignoring the furniture until he found the softest part of your couch. He eased you down like something precious, his hands careful, precise. But his gaze… it never let go.

His cape slipped from his shoulders with practiced ease. He draped it across the back of the chair, and then… Stars help you. His gloves.

One by one, the leather peeled from his fingers. The sound made your breath hitch.

He dropped them to the table, loosened the top buttons of his uniform with one slow motion, and knelt in front of you. Your heels were still on, barely clinging after everything. His fingers reached for them.

"Wait…"

He silenced you with just a glance. No words. Just eyes full of unspoken things you weren’t ready to name.

He touched your foot.

You tensed.

He was gentle. The pressure light, careful, reverent. His thumbs pressed slowly along the arch, circling near the sore spot. You bit your lip. Not from pain. From the way it felt—like every inch of you mattered.

"I’m sorry we had to leave the party early," you said softly, trying to focus on anything but the warmth of his hands moving up your calf.

His head tilted. "I’m not."

"You’re not?"

He looked up at you with that smug smile.

"The point was to celebrate my work, and they did. My mission was to show you to them. And I’d say it was executed perfectly."

He continued to work his way up your leg, massaging lightly. His palms were warm against your skin, your dress pushed slightly higher with every touch.

"You’re too calm about all this," you whispered.

He met your gaze. "I got what I wanted."

You swallowed. "Director—"

"Orson."

The name slipped out of his mouth like a confession. Your breath caught.

"Call me Orson. You screamed my name before that," he said again, quieter this time. It was not a command. It was not a suggestion. It hovered somewhere between pride and vulnerability, a plea cloaked in control.

You blushed, the memory still fresh. The panic when he suddenly carried you. You had cried out for him, not as a director, not even as a superior. Just his name.

Orson.

You hadn't realized you'd done it. But he had.

Your cheeks flushed with warmth. You tried to glance away, but his gaze held you fast.

"Orson," you said quietly.

Something shifted in his eyes. They softened, but not weakly. It was the kind of softness that could shatter steel. A quiet intensity filled the space between you.

He slid closer. Your knees parted just slightly. He didn’t touch you. Not yet. He hovered.

His hand rested at your thigh now, his fingers splayed wide. He leaned in. Your faces were so close his breath warmed your lips. Your heart thundered, and your entire body ached—not from the pain this time—but from the tension so thick it smothered you.

You thought he was going to kiss you. You tilted forward just enough to meet him.

But he stopped.

Right there. Inches away. Close enough for your lips to crave his. Far enough to be cruel.

His smirk returned.

"There’s a lot I want to do to you," he murmured. "But not when your ankle is wrapped like a ration pack."

"You're a bastard," you breathed, face flushed, breath shaky.

"And yet you’re still sitting here," he replied, rising to his feet with maddening grace.

He grabbed his cape, his gloves, every layer of armor he had peeled off… and put it all back on.

You stared, stunned, lips still parted from the kiss that didn’t happen.

He reached the door.

"You should ice it," he said, motioning toward your leg. His tone was neutral, like none of what just happened meant anything.

You stood. Barely.

"You came into my home, touched me, undressed me with your eyes, and now you leave?"

He turned at the door, eyes roaming your figure slowly. "You think I didn’t undress you in my head the moment I saw you in that dress? I’ve been patient all night."

Your stomach flipped.

"And I will continue to be patient," he added, smoother now. "Because when it happens…"

You didn’t breathe.

"It won’t be interrupted. Or rushed. And you will beg for it."

He opened the door, then paused. "Rest well, Agent."

And then he was gone.

You stood in your living room alone, heart pounding, face flushed, knees weak. You pressed a hand to your chest.

Damn him.

He left you burning.

And you hated how badly you wanted him to come back.

*******

The ISB Headquarters greeted you with its usual cold efficiency. The moment you stepped through the security doors, you could feel the weight of every gaze on you. The whispers, the sideways glances—everyone watching, calculating, observing.

You kept your chin high, trying to ignore the prickling sensation running down your spine. Inside, you could hear the soft murmur of voices, the familiar hum of the ISB machinery that had once felt like home. But today, it felt different. Out of place. You were different.

Something about last night had shifted.

Your steps echoed as you walked deeper into the halls. You passed your colleagues who watched you a little too closely, some turning their heads quickly, others meeting your eyes with a mixture of curiosity and caution. It didn’t take long for you to notice that a few desks were empty.

Heert, always the one to linger at the periphery, caught your eye. You approached him and Jung, both men standing near a row of screens, seemingly distracted. Your heart sank.

"Where’s Dedra?" You asked, trying to keep your voice even.

Heert glanced at Jung before looking back at you, clearly unsure whether to answer. His lips parted as if to say something but hesitated. The uncertainty was palpable. You were no longer just an agent to them, but a force of something else entirely.

Before he could respond, Paltargaz appeared from the shadows, his footsteps firm and purposeful. You stiffened instinctively. He was a man who carried weight in his voice. A man who made decisions that affected lives.

"Agent," he said, his tone more neutral than expected.

"Major," you responded with a nod.

"I heard someone tried to hurt you last night at the gala," he continued, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, as if he had been following the trail of rumors, and there was something more beneath the surface. Something simmering.

"It’s been taken care of," you replied flatly, refusing to give him more than necessary.

Paltargaz studied you for a moment. His sharp gaze flicked toward an empty chair near the far side of the room, and his lips pressed together in something like displeasure, though it was expertly hidden. "She’s still in interrogation," he said, voice firm, but there was an undercurrent of frustration just beneath the surface. It was clear that whatever had happened to Dedra, Paltargaz wasn’t happy about it. Or perhaps he wasn’t happy about her being so distracted.

The tension in the room rose slightly. You couldn’t help but turn to Heert and Jung, both of whom had looked down at their boots as if the answer lay hidden there. Heert shrugged, his usual calm demeanor momentarily breaking. Jung’s face remained unreadable, but his eyes flickered with uncertainty.

You thought about Krennic’s words from earlier, about the Empire’s endless backstabbing and the high cost of ambition. Dedra had always been someone you could count on, but in the cold world of the ISB, allegiances were fleeting. Trust was fragile. In a way, the words Krennic had said about losing a friend felt like they were carved into your bones now.

There was a pang of something, maybe regret, maybe guilt. Or perhaps fear.

"You make the ISB proud," Paltargaz said, his voice cutting through your thoughts. His eyes locked with yours, and for a moment, they softened, just slightly, as if he recognized the weight you were carrying. "Don’t disappoint us, Agent. I’ve had enough searching for rats."

His words hung in the air. The layers of meaning behind them were impossible to ignore. Searching for rats, he’d said. The ISB was full of rats—traitors, spies, people with their own agendas. People like Dedra? Or people like you, the ones who were starting to see the cracks in the system? You weren’t sure anymore.

“There was a breach. Minor, but targeted. Some idiot tried to access restricted weapon development files. It was contained before anything spread, but it triggered a full protocol audit.”

Your stomach dropped slightly.

“And?”

“Every agent is required to secure their data. Effective immediately. Yours included.” He finally looked at you. “Some of us thought you’d already gone rogue.”

That earned a few glances from nearby officers.

“I’ve been off-world. Under direct orders,” you said steadily.

“I’m sure,” he replied with a clipped tone. “Agent Meero is currently in holding. Her clearance activity flagged anomalies.”

Paltargaz stepped closer. “You're back. Good. Then no excuses. Lock down your console. Triple encrypt everything. I don’t want to hear your name next.”

You nodded once. “Understood.”

He turned away without another word.

You made your way to your station, feeling the weight of every watchful eye. As your hands hovered above the console, you glanced toward Dedra’s empty chair. The tension curled in your chest like smoke.

Backstabbing. Promotions. Interrogations.

Krennic had warned you this would happen. And now the game had already begun.

When you were doing your job, red light flooded the corridors as warning sirens cut through the thick tension already gripping HQ. Officers jumped to their feet. A synthesized voice barked over the loudspeakers: “Security breach detected. Immediate lockdown initiated. All non-essential personnel evacuate the upper floors.”

Paltargaz’s voice followed seconds later. Sharp. Stern. Laced with authority. "All departments, evacuate to Level Four corridors. You know your protocols. Move."

Jung bolted from his console. Heert cursed under his breath, slamming his terminal shut as agents flooded the main hallways. The panic was restrained, but it was real. Everyone assumed it was related to the breach. No one questioned it. Not at first.

And that was the problem.

In the chaos, no one noticed the woman walking down the hall at a controlled pace, flanked by two men in ISB uniforms. The insignia matched. The badges cleared. She looked slightly dazed, maybe in pain. One man supported her arm, the other walked ahead.

Security let them pass.

The troopers were too focused on the potential cyber breach. Everyone believed the alarm was about data. No one imagined a physical extraction was underway. Not here. Not in the heart of Coruscant’s intelligence center.

You tried to speak, but the pressure in your veins made it hard to focus. You felt lightheaded, dizzy. Cold sweat clung to your neck.

The sharp sting at your side—barely noticed at first—had been a syringe.

You stumbled once, but they steadied you, smiling like allies. Your limbs started to fail you. Vision blurred. One of the men whispered something into your ear, something you couldn’t comprehend through the sound of the sirens and your pulse thudding louder than thought.

The last thing you saw before the world went dark was the glint of Marlon’s eyes.

His face hovered above yours, mockingly gentle.

"You should’ve chosen better."

Then there’s nothing.

Not the blaster-ready stormtroopers, not the agents rushing to secure the data vaults, not even Paltargaz himself. None of them realized that in the middle of this breach, something far more valuable than data had been stolen.

You were gone. And by the time they noticed, it would already be too late.

********

You woke slowly. Your head throbbed, your limbs felt heavy, and the low rumble beneath your body told you immediately that you were in a shuttle. Not Imperial. Smaller. Rougher. The scent of old fuel and recycled air scraped against your throat.

Your vision blurred at first, swimming behind a veil of pain, but as your eyes cleared, your stomach twisted.

Marlon sat in the pilot’s seat.

You bolted upright, chains on your wrists clinking harshly. "What the hell—"

He didn’t look back. His voice came over his shoulder, casual. Almost gentle.

"We’re going home."

You stared at him in disbelief. "Home?"

You leaned forward, struggling to push through the lingering fog in your mind. Then, you saw it. Through the viewport, a brown-orange planet loomed ahead.

No.

Your chest seized with sick recognition. You knew those jagged rock ridges, the burnt treelines, the barren plateaus carved by years of war and neglect. The very bones of the Outer Rim were etched in that world’s soil.

Cinderis.

"No," you whispered, horror creeping up your spine. "Turn it around."

Marlon didn’t even blink. "We’re landing."

"I said turn it around!" You lunged forward, but the cuffs dragged you back. Your voice cracked. "Why would you bring me back here?"

He finally turned to face you, the shadow of something long buried in his expression.

"Because I’m from here too."

The silence inside the cockpit roared louder than the engine. Your breath hitched.

"What?"

He didn’t answer. The shuttle jolted as it began its descent.

Dust clouds spiraled in the air as the landing gear struck dirt. You felt your heart racing, your body tense as he stood and moved toward you, unlocking your safety harness but not your cuffs. He offered no explanation as the ramp lowered.

The light outside was harsh and raw, exactly as you remembered. The smell of dry earth and metal filled your lungs. The air was colder than you expected, or maybe that was your memory chilling your blood.

You stepped down beside Marlon, flanked by two armed men in scrappy uniforms. They weren’t dressed like the polished Rebels you’d seen in intelligence briefings. These were local. Underground. Old loyalties. Old grudges.

And then you saw him.

A tall man stood in the center of the landing zone, arms open like a mockery of welcome.

"Welcome home," Joric Stone said with a thin, calculated smile.

The voice hit you like a blaster to the chest.

You froze, every muscle in your body locking.

Joric Stone

The man who ordered the execution of your parents. The man who turned your village into ash.

"Good job bringing her, son," he said, glancing at Marlon.

You turned slowly. "Son?"

Marlon didn’t meet your eyes.

Joric grinned wider. "What an honor to have the Emperor’s favorite propagandist here." He turned to the scattered Rebels around him. "And would you believe it? She’s from Cinderis. One of ours."

Murmurs spread like poison in the crowd. Eyes narrowed. Hands gripped blasters tighter. Their stares burned into your skin: judgment, suspicion, hatred.

You kept your spine straight, jaw tight. Every breath felt like swallowing glass.

"I am not one of yours," you said, voice low. Controlled.

Joric chuckled. "Come. Let’s give our guest a proper seat."

Inside the crumbling command building, you were shoved into a seat. Your wrists still bound. You faced a semi-circle of local leaders—elders, militants, opportunists wrapped in old resistance colors that hadn't meant anything in decades.

Joric paced like a man preparing a speech.

"To think," he mused aloud, "a girl from this dirt-ridden world would rise so far. ISB. Director Krennic’s right hand. Tell me, what do you dream of, now that you're rubbing elbows with the men who build the stars themselves?"

You looked him in the eye, no fear left to spare.

"You don’t know who I am, do you?"

Joric raised a brow. "Should I?"

You leaned forward, voice like ice.

"I’m the daughter of Kessa and Halin Verin. My father refused to give you the safehouse coordinates. So you killed them. And the others with them."

Something shifted in his face.

You pressed further. "You called it strategy. But we called it betrayal. You burned our homes. Took our food. Sacrificed children. That was your rebellion."

Joric scoffed. "Ah. Now I remember. Ingrates, all of you. We gave you shelter. We gave you a purpose."

"You gave us death."

He waved a hand dismissively. "Massacre is a strong word. Your people simply didn’t know how to defend themselves."

You stared, hollow and sharp. "Is that what you told yourself while my mother bled out in the street?"

The room went silent.

Joric’s expression darkened. In one fluid motion, he stepped forward and slapped you across the face. The blow rang through the small chamber like a gunshot.

"You should’ve died with them," he snarled.

You didn’t flinch. You bled from the lip, but your gaze held steady.

"That’s the problem with your cause," you whispered. "Rotten leaders pretending to fight for peace."

"Take her to the holding cell," he growled.

Marlon hesitated.

"Now, boy!"

He moved to your side. But as he pulled you to your feet, you turned your face toward him.

"I hope you’re proud," you murmured, voice trembling from pain, not fear.

And he couldn’t meet your eyes again.

Not this time.

*******

At ISB Headquarters, the mood shifted quickly. Whispers passed between agents. Your absence had gone unnoticed for the first few hours, but as the day wore on, it was impossible to ignore.

"Is she with Director Krennic?" Partagaz asked, voice sharp as ever.

"I don’t think so, sir. No transport requests, no dispatch notices, and no orders came through from Scarif or Coruscant High Command," Heert replied quickly.

"Maybe she's sick," one of the junior agents offered, almost too casually.

"What?" Partagaz narrowed his eyes.

"Last night, during the breach alarm, when we had to gather outside the command floor... I saw her. She looked pale and was leaning against another agent. He was helping her. I thought maybe she fainted or something."

Heert and Jung immediately exchanged a look. Partagaz’s face darkened.

"I have a bad feeling about this."

Heert moved fast. "I’ll check the surveillance records."

Minutes later, the three of them stood in a control bay, observing holorecordings on glowing Imperial holopanels. Footage flickered. They saw you following evacuation protocols after the data breach. Then in another feed — you being led away discreetly, supported by someone in an ISB uniform.

"Wait," Partagaz narrowed his gaze. "Enhance that visual. That’s not one of ours."

"I’ve seen him before..." Jung said carefully.

Partagaz’s jaw tightened. "So have I. That boy from the fundraising gala. The one who made Director Krennic twitch with jealousy."

Heert leaned in a little closer. "Well, I guess it’s a good thing Director Krennic ruined her date."

Jung shot him a look, clearly not in the mood for jokes.

Partagaz cursed under his breath. "Stars help us... he's going to kill someone when he hears this."

He tapped the holocomm. The signal flickered once, twice, then sharpened into focus—Director Krennic appeared, surrounded by the clean lines and bright light of Scarif Command. His white cape shimmered faintly in the background, and his expression was cool, unreadable.

"Krennic," Partagaz began without ceremony, his voice clipped, "I need a moment of your time."

Krennic didn’t look up from whatever data he was reviewing. "Make it quick. I’m debriefing with the Scarif engineers before the Finance Guild arrives."

"It’s about your propagandist."

That made Krennic glance up, but only mildly. "What about her?"

Partagaz hesitated just slightly. Just enough to be noticed.

Krennic’s brow twitched. "Partagaz?"

"She’s… missing."

The silence that followed was immediate and suffocating. Krennic stood straighter, his face hardening, but his voice stayed measured.

"Missing as in unaccounted for, or missing as in someone took her?"

Partagaz’s jaw flexed. "We have reason to believe she’s been taken. By rebels."

Krennic stared, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then his voice dropped, dangerous and low.

"How long have you known?"

"She didn’t report in today. That alone isn’t irregular. But an agent saw her during last night’s security evacuation. Pale, disoriented, being helped by someone we now believe wasn’t one of ours."

Krennic's face shifted—just slightly—but enough to betray what Partagaz rarely saw from him.

Fear.

"And you’re just telling me this now?"

"We were verifying before—"

"You should’ve called the second she was late." Krennic’s voice cracked like glass under pressure. "You think I wouldn't notice her absence? You think I’d be too distracted by bureaucrats to care?"

Partagaz stood silent. Not out of guilt, but because there was nothing he could say to temper the storm brewing through the comm.

Krennic exhaled sharply, trying to reel it in. His voice dropped to a hiss. "Who."

"The man she was seen with at the fundraiser. We pulled footage. He's not on our personnel list."

Krennic didn’t even blink. "Marlon."

Partagaz nodded grimly.

There was a loud crash—off screen, something metallic hitting the floor. Krennic had thrown something. Then he paced out of frame briefly before returning, his composure beginning to fracture at the edges.

"I left Scarif for two days to deal with financiers and walk imbeciles through the Death Star's metrics. Two days. And this happens."

Partagaz straightened. "We’re already tracing his ship. We’ll have a location soon." Actually they have no lead. But he lied to ease Krennic anger.

Krennic’s eyes bored through him. "If you don’t find her, I will personally raze the entire ISBy department and bury it to the ground."

"We will find her," Partagaz said flatly. "You have my word."

The line cut. Silence remained.

He turned to Heert and Jung.

"You heard him. Lock every hyperspace corridor from here to the Outer Rim. Track every flight manifest and heat trail. I want Marlon before the sun sets. No excuses."

They nodded sharply and moved in unison.

********

Somewhere in the lower levels of Coruscant, buried beneath the glowing towers and chaos of the upper districts, Jung waited in the shadows of a narrow service corridor. The stale scent of coolant and metal clung to the air, mixing with the faint hum of power lines overhead. His eyes tracked every sound — footsteps, the hiss of hydraulics, distant traffic above — until finally, a figure stepped into view.

Luthen Rael approached with his usual calm, the folds of his dark cloak hiding his arms, but his stance betrayed tension. They were alone — or at least as alone as anyone could be in this city.

Jung stepped forward, his voice low but loaded with accusation. "Is this your plan? Kidnapping an Imperial agent?"

Luthen exhaled sharply, as if he had been holding that breath for hours. "No. That wasn’t supposed to happen." His voice dropped, almost regretful. "I should never have trusted Marlon. He’s reckless. Ambition clouded him. Whatever he’s doing now... he’s doing it alone."

"Then give me something," Jung demanded. "Anything about him. Location. Contact. Ship ID. Anything."

Luthen tilted his head slightly, studying Jung with piercing eyes. "Why do you care so much?"

Jung’s jaw tensed. "You don’t understand what you’ve done. Krennic will burn everything to find her. He’s finished his weapon. And now? Now he has motive."

Those words struck like a bolt to Luthen’s spine. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The faint twitch in his jaw, the flicker of fear behind his eyes, was enough.

"You know what that thing is capable of," Jung added, stepping closer. "And he’s already unleashed it once. Imagine what he’ll do when it’s personal."

For a long moment, the silence between them crackled with unspoken threats and truth. Finally, Luthen reached into his cloak and pulled a datachip. He held it out with reluctance.

"That’s all I have. Coordinates. A drop point from Marlon two days ago. He stopped responding after that."

Jung snatched the chip without hesitation, his fingers cold around it. He gave Luthen one last look, one that said, if this goes further south, none of us are safe.

"You better hope she’s still alive."

*******

The cell was small. The air stank of rusted metal and mildew, a cloying, rotted scent that clung to every breath. The walls were damp and bruised with age, and the faint trickle of water in some unseen corner made the silence worse. The dim light flickered overhead, casting shadows that danced too slowly. You sat on the cold floor, knees pulled close, the metal cuffs biting into your wrists. This wasn’t just a prison — it was a memory. And not one you wanted.

You had grown up in places like this. In corners of the galaxy forgotten by the Senate and ignored by the Empire. Back then, you had to sleep beneath broken roofs and dig through ration crates just to eat. The smell in this cell was the same as the caves you’d hidden in when the fighting got too close. And now here you were again, only this time with nothing but your title, your pain, and a past you’d tried so hard to erase.

Beside you, in the opposite cell, two stormtroopers sat chained together, their armor dirtied and scorched. Even they looked hollow. It was strange seeing them like this — once so imposing, now reduced to quiet breathing, just as trapped as you were.

The cell door groaned open. You didn’t look up.

"Miserable place, isn't it?" Marlon’s voice echoed off the walls, too familiar, too calm. He stepped forward carrying a tray, the weak scent of reheated rations doing nothing to improve the atmosphere.

You still didn’t meet his gaze.

"I brought food," he said simply. "Eat. You'll think clearer with something in your stomach."

You turned your head slightly, eyes sharp. "You think I’m going to change my mind because of scraps and kindness?"

Marlon crouched, placing the tray on the ground just out of your reach. "I think you're tired. I think you're remembering why you came from here. Why it hurts. I'm offering you a way out — a real one. Leave the Empire. Come back to what your parents believed in."

You let out a soft, bitter laugh, shaking your head slowly.

"My soul was already torn to shreds the day my parents died in front of me," you said. "I had to hide. I had to crawl through ash and bone just to survive. There were days I envied worms — at least they could burrow deep underground and disappear. I couldn’t. I had to keep running. Keep breathing."

Marlon's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. "And now you betray that sacrifice by siding with the very people who helped tear this planet apart?"

"If my parents were still alive and saw what I have become — they would understand," you replied coolly. "Because I no longer sleep under rubble. I no longer starve. I live with comfort. I live with control. I am not a hunted animal in a hole anymore."

Your words echoed through the cellblock. One of the prisoners nearby gave a loud cheer. Another clapped a chained hand against the wall in support. Even the stormtroopers grunted their amusement.

Marlon rose to his feet with a humorless scoff. "You're clever with words. No wonder the Emperor and Krennic keep you close." His voice sharpened. "I wonder if Krennic even realizes you're gone yet. If he does, I hope he's enjoying the chase — because he won’t find you."

You flinched before you could stop yourself. That flash of dread, sudden and heavy, slammed into your chest.

Marlon noticed. His gaze softened, almost pitying. "Clear your head. No one here wants to hurt you. You're too valuable for that."

Your voice came out low, bitter. “So. The first meeting. The date. It was all for a mission.”

He didn’t answer right away. He stared at the floor, the words pressing into the space between you like a heavy fog. Finally, he admitted it. “It was. I took the assignment because you were from Cinderis. I thought you’d be easy to pull back. One of us.”

He looked at you then, and for the first time, there was no mask. No act. “But you weren’t. You were different. Smarter. Colder. It stopped being a mission after the second time we spoke. And that scared the hell out of me.”

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t. The betrayal settled in your gut like a bruise that would never fade.

He turned and walked toward the door, pausing only briefly before the guard opened it for him. Then he was gone, leaving you in the silence that somehow felt colder than before.

You curled in on yourself, resting your back against the wall. Your thoughts drifted, too fast to stop. Mia’s laugh. The soft giggles of her daughters. The quiet joy of watching the little one hand you a drawing with pride. Your ridiculous director — smug, impossible, infuriating. The way his eyes burned when he looked at you. The unexpected gentleness in his voice that night after the gala. The way he carried you like you mattered. Like you were his.

And now?

Now you were in a place that reeked of ghosts, waiting to see who would find you first.

******

They made you walk again. This time, escorted by Marlon, his grip firm on your arm as he guided you through the base. The air outside the prison was just as stifling, though now filled with the murmurs and glances of rebel fighters as you passed. Your injured leg ached with every step, but you didn’t let them see it. You kept your spine straight, your face cold.

They brought you into a larger chamber. At the center stood Joric Stone, his presence as smug and arrogant as you remembered — the man whose orders had ended your parents' lives. His expression was all show, arms spread in mock welcome.

“She’s here,” Marlon announced.

Joric stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, voice low and controlled. “We need your skills, girl. The Empire’s propaganda has flooded too many systems. But we have you now. You’re going to turn the tide.”

You didn’t answer.

“Make a piece. Just one,” Joric said, tone too casual. “Stir up sympathy for our cause. Convince the people the Empire is a machine. Cold, cruel. Empty.”

You stared at him with open contempt. “I won’t.”

He tilted his head slightly, then smiled, slow and venomous. “Mia,” he said.

You blinked. The name hit like a slap.

“She’s from this planet too, right? Your friend? Married well. Living comfortably in Coruscant. Two lovely daughters.”

Your stomach twisted. “What did you say?”

“I know everything,” he said softly. “Where she lives. Where her children play. Who drives them to school. I have people near her. Watching. Waiting.”

Your hands clenched into fists. “Fine,” you hissed.

Joric turned to Marlon with a smirk. “Bring her a pen. Let her do the job.”

Marlon placed a sheet of flimsi and a pen in front of you. You didn’t move.

“I’m still cuffed,” you muttered.

Marlon hesitated, then unlocked the cuffs. “Try anything, and it won’t end well.”

Joric chuckled. “You’re an ISB agent, sure, but they don’t train you for real combat. Just enough to die dramatically.”

You stared at the pen for a heartbeat. Then you smiled. “That’s true.”

In one fluid motion, you grabbed the pen and drove it into Joric’s eye.

He screamed, stumbling backward in agony. “Arrgh!”

You lunged behind him, wrapping your arm around his throat, dragging him upright even as his blood slicked your arm. The room erupted into chaos, blasters raised, voices shouting.

“Drop it!” someone shouted.

You pressed the edge of the broken pen to Joric’s neck. “Do it, and he’ll never speak again,” you growled. “Put. Them. Down.”

Joric whimpered, clutching his eye, pain overcoming his pride. “Stand down. Stand down!”

Blasters lowered.

With her hostage trembling, you used him like a keycard. One room, then another — barked commands, stifled panic. No one dared challenge you, not with Joric bleeding and furious.

Finally, outside. You didn’t have a plan. You just needed to get away.

A parked glider bike waited by the supply platform. Sleek, half-powered, but fast enough. You shoved Joric away, climbed on, ignoring the white-hot stab of pain in your leg.

“Stop her!” Joric roared behind you.

Blaster fire rained across the tarmac as you gunned the accelerator and shot forward. Lights streaked past. Voices blurred. All you knew was the wind and the pain and the desperate need to get out.

The vehicle jerked as a blast clipped the side panel. You lost control. The world spun violently. You hit the dirt hard, tumbling through brush and bramble before slamming into the edge of the forest floor.

Your ears rang. Your ribs burned. You tried to crawl.

Footsteps followed.

Marlon emerged from the trees, face twisted with frustration. He raised the blaster in his hand but didn’t shoot.

“Why,” he said, breathless, “do you have to make everything so difficult?”

You forced yourself upright, swaying. “Because I don’t belong here.”

He laughed — not amused. Bitter. Unhinged. “So you’d rather be dragged around by a man in a white cape? That’s better than this?”

You didn’t flinch. “It’s not about him.”

“It is. You love him,” he spat. “I can see it.”

You said nothing.

“Damn it.” His voice cracked, the blaster trembling slightly in his grip. “You really do.”

Then he laughed again, the sound wild. Something about it made your chest tighten with unease. You took a step back, slowly, the dirt and leaves crunching underfoot.

Marlon stopped laughing. His hand steadied.

He raised the blaster.

You closed your eyes, accepting it. If this was your final moment, at least let it be quick.

And deep down, your only regret was not kissing Krennic that night.

Suddenly, a sharp crack shattered the air.

Marlon’s scream tore through the clearing, raw and helpless.

You gasped, eyes snapping open just in time to see him stagger backward, his hand clutching his shoulder. Blood bloomed between his fingers. He tripped in the dirt, eyes wide with pain and disbelief.

The wind screamed louder now, a sudden gale rushing through the trees. Dust rose around you in a violent whirl. Above, cutting through the storm clouds like a blade, descended a black shuttle. Its landing thrusters roared as the ramp lowered with a hiss, swallowing the earth in shadow.

He emerged from the storm like a myth made real.

Orson Krennic.

White cape billowing, posture tall and unyielding, he moved down the ramp with measured steps. The fabric snapped in the wind behind him like a war banner. Death Troopers followed, their presence massive and silent, flanking him with the precision of judgment.

Krennic didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

His eyes were locked on Marlon, gaze like a weapon in itself—burning, fixed, merciless. He didn’t so much walk as command the space around him. The wind seemed to part in his wake.

Marlon’s mouth worked soundlessly. He tried to move. A second shot rang out.

He screamed again, this time falling to one knee, his leg torn beneath him.

Still, Krennic did not rush. He advanced with slow, terrifying calm, the kind of deliberate pace that promised no escape. His boots struck the ground like the toll of a war drum.

His eyes flicked to you.

The bruises.

The cuts.

Your trembling form.

His expression barely changed, but his jaw tightened, his breath shifted—enough to show the storm inside him was far more dangerous than the one raging around you.

When he reached you, he did not speak.

He pulled you into his chest without hesitation, one gloved hand cradling your head, the other curling protectively around your back. The moment his arms wrapped around you, something in you collapsed. A sob escaped your throat, muffled against the fabric of his uniform.

"You came," you whispered, your voice hoarse.

He pressed his lips against your temple, his breath shallow and trembling with fury.

"Of course I came, darling. No one touches what I value. No one takes you from me."

Behind you, Marlon whimpered in agony.

Krennic turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing. He raised one hand. The gesture was subtle. Dismissive.

The third blast echoed like judgment.

And then, silence.

Marlon’s cries were gone. So was Marlon.

You didn’t turn to look. You didn’t need to.

"Is it done?" you whispered.

Krennic exhaled slowly, his breath a controlled release of fire. He nodded once.

"It’s done."

His hand found your cheek, brushing gently across the tender bruising. His touch, so soft now, trembled with everything he refused to say. The cold rage that had consumed him moments ago was buried beneath something deeper. He leaned close.

"Let’s go home."

He didn’t let you go, not once, as he led you back toward the waiting shuttle. The storm clouds above had not calmed, but their fury no longer reached you.

You were in his arms.

And nothing dared touch you again.

*******

You didn’t remember fainting.

One moment, you were wrapped in Krennic’s arms, the scent of his uniform clinging to you as your adrenaline finally gave out. The next, everything was light and noise.

You awoke slowly to a sterile hum, the sharp scent of antiseptic stinging your nose. The lighting overhead was clinical and bright, too clean. Your body ached. Cold metal beneath you. Soft beeping echoed faintly from the monitor beside your bed.

You blinked, disoriented.

"You're stable," a voice said.

A physician stepped into your view. Imperial white. Calm. Detached. "Mild concussion. Lacerations. Deep tissue bruising. But nothing permanent. You're lucky."

Your throat was dry, your voice barely audible. "Where am I?"

The physician didn’t answer right away.

Then another voice filled the room, deeper, familiar, and somehow cutting straight to your core.

"The Death Star."

You turned, slowly, already knowing what you’d see.

Krennic stood in the doorway, cape draped behind him, gloves absent, though his posture was still rigid, still dignified, like nothing could rattle the empire forged in his mind.

“You’re safe now,” he said, but his eyes never quite softened. They scanned you like a checklist, finding every bruise, every mark, and filing them away with lethal precision.

He turned to one of the command officers waiting behind him. "Report."

"Sir, we’ve retrieved every Imperial asset from the rebel prison. All accounted for," the officer added. "Including the children."

"Good," Krennic said coldly. "That means only one piece remains."

The officer nodded and stepped aside.

He stepped forward to you, and without another word, he held out a hand.

“Come with me.”

You hesitated, weakly pushing yourself upright.

“I want you to see something,” he said.

And somehow, despite everything, you took his hand.

He led you silently through the sterile corridors of the Death Star, the vastness of the station unfolding around you like a throne carved into space. Stormtroopers stepped aside. Officers stood to attention. No one questioned your presence.

He brought you to an observation room overlooking one of the central detention decks. You immediately recognized the figure kneeling on the floor.

Joric Stone.

He looked different now. Small. Broken. His hands were bound behind his back, his body bruised and bloodied, one eye missing. He didn’t look like a rebel leader anymore.

“You didn’t kill him?” you asked quietly.

Krennic’s voice was low. “Not yet.”

He gestured to one of the guards.

“Bring him.”

The stormtroopers moved quickly. Joric didn’t resist, but he groaned in pain as they hauled him to his feet. You turned away, just slightly. Not out of sympathy. Out of memory.

Krennic led you to another chamber. A circular control room—one that overlooked the vast targeting array. On the central screen, the blue-green surface of Cinderis filled the projection. Cloud banks drifted lazily over its mountains. You knew those forests. You knew the smell of the dirt. The taste of hunger.

Joric was dragged in and forced to his knees before the viewport.

“You wanted her to suffer,” Krennic said, voice quiet. “Now you’ll see what that earns you.”

He moved behind Joric and crouched. Then, with one gloved hand, he gripped the back of the man’s bloodied head and forced his face upward.

"Look."

Joric flinched, trying to pull away, but Krennic tightened his hold.

"You made her bleed. You dragged her back to this place. And now you're going to watch it vanish."

"Don’t—" Joric wheezed, shaking.

Krennic ignored him completely. His eyes were on you.

“You deserve this,” he said. Not to Joric. To you.

Then, to the operator: “Target the rebel stronghold.”

Joric screamed.

"You can't! My soldiers!”

"Collateral," Krennic said simply. "The price of your rebellion."

The targeting system aligned. The weapon charged, humming with power that vibrated through your chest.

Joric sobbed now, his voice ragged. "Please… Please!"

Krennic leaned closer to him. His voice was almost gentle.

“Do you want to know why I brought you here?”

Joric whimpered.

Krennic’s voice dropped, cold as vacuum.

“Because I want this to be the last thing burned into that skull of yours.”

Then he nodded once towards the operator.

“Fire!"

The chamber went silent as light erupted across the screen. A single beam lanced from the weapon array. Blinding. Absolute.

Cinderis bloomed into a sun.

Joric screamed, convulsed, and fell limp in the guards’ grip.

You watched, unmoving. You didn’t cry. You didn’t speak. The world that had hurt you your entire life was now a smear of smoke in orbit.

Krennic finally released Joric’s head, and the man slumped to the floor in a heap of whimpers and failure.

“Dispose of him,” Krennic said, his voice devoid of weight.

Then he turned to you. The storm in him settled. Not gone. But quiet.

"Are you satisfied?"

You didn’t answer right away.

But a part of you—one you had buried long ago in the forests of Cinderis—whispered yes.

And you followed him to another room to avoid the chaos. There’s only both of you at the moment.

You turned to him, lips parting with disbelief. "Why did you show me this?"

Krennic didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were trained on the fading light from the projection, watching the data clear from the screen as if brushing off ash. He didn’t look at you when he finally spoke. "Because I wanted you to see what justice looks like."

You stared at him, heart hammering against your ribs.

He turned then, slowly, the edges of his voice softer now, but no less steady. "That place... It stole everything from you. It buried your family. It made you believe there was no power that could ever protect you."

He stepped closer, his eyes locking with yours, unflinching. "I wanted you to know that I can." The breath caught in your throat. "I didn’t do this for protocol," he continued, voice quieter now, but deeper. “I did this for you. Because you deserve to see it gone. Not hidden. Not buried. Gone.”

Your vision blurred, but you didn’t look away.

You couldn’t. "And Joric?" you asked, your voice low.

Krennic’s lips twitched faintly. No smile. Just grim truth. "He watched his empire burn. Just like you watched yours. The difference is, you built something greater out of the rubble."

You exhaled shakily, your body trembling from more than injury. You looked out at the screen again, at the now-empty sky.

No more lies. No more ghosts. No more Cinderis.

Krennic stepped closer and, without asking, placed his gloved hand over yours. "You asked me once if I saw you as my equal," he said. "This is my answer."

‘My Equal.’

The words echoed between you, low and deliberate, landing like a final strike on everything that once held you apart. The room was quiet now. The only sound was the low hum of the Death Star’s power systems in the walls and the pounding of your own heartbeat.

You stared at him.

No smirk. No smugness. No layers of manipulation. Just Orson. Exhausted. Unflinching. And for once, not trying to win. Just telling the truth.

You hadn’t come looking for this. You hadn’t thought your moment of justice would look like this, feel like this. But in the aftermath of everything of blood, ruin, betrayal, and survival. It made terrifying, perfect sense.

Your body moved before your mind could catch up.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t graceful.

You stepped forward and kissed him.

A startled breath left him through his nose, like you’d struck him again. Not with a weapon this time, but with something more dangerous. You felt it the moment his mind caught up to his body, when surprise turned into something hungry, something scorching.

And then, he kissed you back with controlled force, one gloved hand sliding behind your neck, the other bracing against the glass wall beside you. You rose onto your toes, pulling him closer, as if the world around you didn’t matter, and for the first time in so long, it didn’t.

He tasted like heat and metal and thunder. And you wanted more.

When he finally pulled away, just barely, his breath was ragged, his eyes unreadable but burning. He looked at you like a man seeing something sacred. And for once, you didn’t feel like a pawn. Or a weapon. Or a piece of strategy.

"You kissed me," he said quietly, like he needed to hear himself say it to believe it.

You nodded, heart racing. "Yes."

His lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. "It’s about time."

You stared at each other for another beat. The kind of beat that changes everything.

And for once, it was not about power. Not about politics. Not even about revenge.

It was just the two of you. Finally standing in the same place. At the same time. No more waiting.

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