You step into Bacara's room with a stack of mail — mostly junk from outdated war archives and a letter from Master Mundi that somehow still finds its way to him.

Almost immediately, your nose recoils.

The rancid stench hits you like a thermal detonator — that unmistakable mix of rotting fish and swamp water.

"Wow," you say, waving your hand in front of your face, "did you bring the entire Naboo lake in here or something?"

Bacara looks up from his chair, completely unfazed. "That smell doesn't bother me."

You blink. "What? Seriously?"

He shrugs. "Lost my sense of smell in the war. Nothing bothers me anymore."

You squint at him. "Okay, old man, that's great for you — but I still have mine. And it's telling me you need to get rid of that dead fish now."

Without missing a beat, Bacara stands, strides over to the monstrous, slimy corpse of the fish you'd dragged back the other day, hoists it up like it weighs nothing... and launches it straight across the hall.

The fish thuds into the room opposite his, where you know Commander Bly lives.

You raise your eyebrows. "Uh... what was that about?"

Bacara grins like a mischievous kid. "Old scores to settle. Bly and I have... history."

You can't help but shake your head, the chaos never ending.

Just as you're processing Bacara's fish-flinging madness, the door across the hall bursts open and Bly steps out, nose wrinkled in disgust.

Without a word, he grabs the fish, hefts it up — and chucks it back across the hall with surprising force.

The fish smacks against Bacara's wall with a sickening splatter.

Fish guts and scales explode everywhere — sticky chunks splattering across the hallway, the walls, even the ceiling.

You stare, mouth open, as the two old war dogs stare each other down like squabbling toddlers in a nursery.

And then, with no hesitation, they start throwing fish parts at each other.

A bloody scale bounces off your shoulder.

A chunk of fish belly hits the floor at your feet.

The ridiculous battle rages on — until Bly reaches down to pick up another glob of fish guts and suddenly freezes.

You watch as he bends, then pauses.

Then he straightens back up with a slow, painful grunt.

"Guess I'm not as spry as I used to be," Bly mutters.

You step forward and gently offer your hand.

"Here, let me help."

He accepts the support, leaning heavily on you as you steady him upright.

"Thanks," he says quietly, a rare softness in his voice.

You glance down at the mess and groan.

Of course, the next task falls to you — fish guts cleanup duty.

You grab your gloves and mop, bracing yourself for the smell.

⸻

You're halfway through scraping a stubborn chunk of fish spine off the hallway floor when you swear you hear your soul trying to leave your body.

The smell is worse now — every sweep of the mop seems to stir up the rancid lake-water stench until you're gagging through your teeth.

You've got one neat little pile of fish parts off to the side, ready to be bagged and dumped, when you hear boots approaching.

Neyo strolls past, giving you a sidelong glance that makes you feel like you're under some sort of sniper's scope.

He pauses just long enough to say, in the most deadpan voice possible:

"Still the ugliest head of hair I've ever seen."

You freeze mid-mop.

"What the hell is wrong with my hair?" you demand, turning toward him.

He doesn't answer. He doesn't even look back.

He just keeps walking — and as he passes the fish pile, he kicks it.

Kicks it so hard that the pile scatters in every direction, chunks of slimy flesh skidding across the hall you just cleaned.

You stand there, mop dripping, staring at the carnage like a war crime has just been committed.

Neyo doesn't break stride. Doesn't explain.

You close your eyes and breathe deep through your mouth because it's that or commit a murder.

⸻

You're still mopping fish slime when you hear Jali outside yelling like she's herding wild animals.

"Bacara! Get back inside! You're not allowed on the roof!"

You lean over to peek through the door — and there he is, the man himself, halfway up the drainpipe in nothing but his regulation shorts and a stubborn glare.

You're about to watch the drama unfold when someone blocks your view.

It's an old clone commander you don't see often — Monk. He's got that slow, deliberate swagger like he's trying to convince himself he's still got it.

He leans one elbow on the wall, smirks, and says:

"You know... for someone like you, I could make an exception."

You blink at him. "I'm too young for you."

He shrugs. "Technically, I'm only thirty-seven."

Without missing a beat, you deadpan:

"Cool. Let's put you down for your nap."

Jali's still shouting in the background as Monk is immediately intercepted by two orderlies who attempt to steer him back toward his room like he's an overgrown toddler.

You follow — mostly because you want to see if Bacara's still on the pipe — but as you round the corner, you walk straight into another mess.

Fives and Echo are nose-to-nose in the hallway, both looking way too serious for two men still wearing mismatched socks.

Fives is jabbing a finger in Echo's chest.

"I didn't get the recognition I deserved when I saved the Republic! You know I didn't!"

Echo throws his hands up. "You literally exposed the chancellor as a Sith Lord, Fives — what more recognition do you want?"

"A parade! My face on credits! At least a thank-you fruit basket!"

The hallway is already an absolute mess of noise and chaos by the time you try to pass through with Monk on your arm.

He's still grinning at you like you've just offered to elope with him instead of telling him it's nap time. "I'm technically only thirty-seven," he says in that too-smooth voice that makes you wonder if he practiced it in a mirror.

"Yeah, and I'm technically too young for you," you shoot back, steering him toward the rec room. "Let's put you down for your nap before your joints seize up."

"Ah, you're missing the good old days," he yells suddenly, his voice echoing down the corridor as if you've just denied him the secret to eternal youth.

Before you can even roll your eyes, movement in your peripheral vision catches your attention—Bacara, Jali is down below, hands on her hips, yelling at him to "get his ass back inside before she calls the Council."

Then, without warning, the drainpipe creaks ominously. Bacara drops with a thunk and a very loud string of Mando'a curses, landing square on his back mid-argument between Fives and Echo.

You glance over just in time to catch Echo gesturing emphatically. "Fives, you did get recognition. You got a medal. You got a formal commendation from the Senate."

"That wasn't good enough!" Fives snaps back, gesturing so wildly he almost smacks Bacara in the face. "I saved the entire Republic and all I got was some cheap tin badge—and Fox tried to kill me before the ceremony!"

From down the hall, Fox's voice booms like an angry deity. "At the time, you were a traitor! You're lucky I didn't crawl into your walls and make creepy noises at night!"

The entire hallway freezes.

Fives blinks. "What the hell does that even mean?"

Fox doesn't even hesitate. "You wouldn't understand."

You open your mouth to intervene, but the opportunity is stolen by Kix storming up with a med chart in hand, looking like he's seconds away from strangling you with it. "You. You gave me the wrong medication yesterday."

You hold up a hand. "Kix, I'm literally in the middle of—"

"No, no, you don't understand," he cuts in, jabbing the chart toward your chest. "If I hadn't noticed, I would've been running on enough stimulant to kill a bantha. Do you know how fast I’m already wired on a normal day? I would've started speaking in binary."

You pinch the bridge of your nose, wondering if you can fake a fainting spell to escape all of this, when Monk—still being dragged toward his nap—shouts over his shoulder again, "YOU'RE ALL SOFT NOW!"

The worst part? He's probably right.

⸻

Dinner time at the retirement home for war veterans is always chaos, but tonight... tonight is a new level of unhinged.

You're making your usual rounds, dropping off trays and trying not to inhale whatever unholy stew the kitchen's cooked up. Some of them are actually eating like normal human beings, but others? Others are poking their food with forks like it's going to jump off the plate and bite them back.

In the middle of it all, Sev—a retired clone commando—has is circling around the dinner hall in his wheelchair. He's not sitting in it. Oh no. He's in it like a predator stalking prey, slowly circling other clones while staring them down.

You decide you'd better check in. "Hey, Sev. You doing alright there? Need any help?"

He doesn't blink. "Hold onto your guts while I rip out theirs."

Right. Totally fine. Normal retirement home talk.

Before you can respond, Sev suddenly stands up, which is alarming because you were under the impression his knees didn't work anymore, and then—without warning—he throws the wheelchair at a random clone across the room. It hits the wall with a loud clang, the poor victim flinching like he just got shelled.

Sev wipes his hands off on his trousers like that's the end of his evening workout. "You might wanna check on Scorch," he says casually, as if he didn't just commit light assault with mobility equipment. "It was his wheelchair I borrowed."

You're about 80% sure this means Scorch is now stranded somewhere in the home without wheels, probably causing his own brand of chaos. And somehow... you already know finding him is going to be worse than this.

You set Sev's dinner plate down—because obviously he's not going to eat right now, too busy living out his Predator fantasies—and start the search for Scorch.

You don't have to go far. The trail of chaos is immediate. First, you spot a tipped-over chair in the hallway. Then a clone helmet with bite marks in it. Then a pudding cup, half empty, smeared along the wall at about waist height.

You follow the evidence until you reach the recreation room, where the noise is coming from. Sure enough—there's Scorch.

He's not in a wheelchair. He's on the pool table. Flat on his back, using one of the cue sticks like a spear to keep three other clones at bay while yelling,

"THE FLOOR IS LAVA AND YOU'RE ALL DRIED OUT WOMP RATS!"

One of the staff droids is trying to coax him down in the calmest possible monotone, but every time it gets close, Scorch whacks the stick at it and shrieks like a feral tooka.

"Scorch," you try, stepping forward cautiously. "Buddy, do you need a wheelchair?"

He freezes, then slowly turns his head to you. His expression is deadly serious. "It's gone. He took it."

"I know Sev took it—"

"He didn't take it," Scorch cuts you off, eyes darting wildly like he's expecting an ambush. "He stole it. And when I get my hands on him, I'm gonna roll him into the mess hall freezer and lock him in."

A clone in the corner pipes up, "That's what he said about you, actually."

You're about to tell Scorch to just wait a minute when he suddenly leaps off the pool table—except "leaps" is generous. His knees give way mid-air, and he crashes to the ground like a sack of wet sand.

"Oh, right..." you mutter. "Wheelchair."

It doesn't stop him. Oh no. Scorch immediately flips onto his stomach and starts army crawling toward the hallway like a determined swamp creature, dragging the pool cue behind him like it's a blessed relic. Every few feet he hisses at imaginary enemies, whispering,

"They'll never see me coming. They'll never see me coming."

You try to step around him to help, but he swats at your ankles with the cue stick. "You're in my kill zone, civvie."

Before you can argue, Sev appears from around the corner, standing tall with a dinner knife in one hand and a cafeteria tray in the other like some unholy gladiator. He locks eyes with Scorch.

"Give it back," Scorch growls from the floor.

"Come take it," Sev replies, tossing the tray from hand to hand.

The tension builds. Other old clones in the mess hall start crowding around, chanting "Fight! Fight! Fight!" like it's high school all over again.

Then—chaos.

Sev hurls the tray—not at Scorch—but at you. It smacks you in the side of the head with the dull metallic "thunk" of every bad decision you've ever made. Your vision whites out. You stagger back into a table, knocking over someone's nerf stew.

As you're going down, the sounds around you turn into muffled echoes:

Scorch screaming, "CHOKE ON YOUR OWN BOLTS, SEV!"

Sev laughing like a war god.

A staff droid in the background repeating, "Please remain calm" on loop.

And then—blackness.

⸻

The transmission came through encrypted—priority red. Only one man used that level for you.

Palpatine.

You were already on a job halfway across the mid rim, credits in hand, target bleeding out behind you. But the moment his message came through, you abandoned everything. You didn’t hesitate.

Meet me at the Jedi Temple. Do not be late. – S.P.

⸻

You’d walked into war zones with less tension in your shoulders.

The Temple was beautiful in the way ancient weapons are—elegant, polished, deadly. You moved past towering statues and sacred halls, every Jedi you passed giving you the same look: mistrust. Unease.

Good. Let them squirm.

As the war room doors slid open with a soft hiss, all eyes turned to you.

You stepped in slow, measured, the weight of a dozen stares pressing down your spine like a blade. The room was war incarnate—strategy, power, command. And it watched you with silent judgment.

Standing at the forefront:

General Obi-Wan Kenobi, composed as ever, hands folded, a silent storm behind his eyes.

Beside him, Commander Cody, helmet under arm, chin set, already assessing you like a battlefield.

General Anakin Skywalker, lounging in that casual defiance he wore like armor, flanked by Captain Rex, who stood just a little too stiffly for comfort.

Then there was Master Mace Windu, an immovable pillar at the center of it all. His commander, Ponds, stood at his side—stoic, calm, the kind of soldier who watched everything and said little.

Further down, Master Kit Fisto offered a diplomatic nod, the faintest flicker of curiosity in his eyes. His clone, Commander Monk, mirrored him: collected, but his fingers tapped an idle rhythm on his vambrace like he already expected things to go sideways.

And finally, Aayla Secura, calm and unreadable, with Commander Bly behind her—silent, stern, and entirely unimpressed.

At the center of the room, waiting with a smug patience, stood Chancellor Palpatine.

He turned toward you with a grandfather’s smile—one that always felt like it was hiding teeth. “My friends,” he said, “allow me to introduce someone who has served the Republic with discretion and remarkable skill.”

You stood taller, letting your eyes sweep across the room.

“This bounty hunter has been a valuable ally to my office for some time. Her knowledge of Separatist operations is unmatched, and her methods…” His smile deepened. “…are effective.”

You caught the way Cody’s jaw tightened. Rex’s brow furrowed. Bly looked like he’d rather shoot you than shake your hand. Even Windu’s expression soured like something had curdled in the Force.

“She will accompany you on the invasion of Teth, and she has been assigned a special task—one that is not up for discussion.”

He let the weight of that hang for a moment, then stepped aside, gesturing toward the table.

“Now, shall we begin?”

⸻

Rex found you first.

He’d been trailing behind Skywalker, but as soon as the war meeting ended, he broke off and caught up to you in a quiet corridor overlooking the city below.

“You’ve got some nerve,” he said without greeting.

You turned slowly, raising a brow. “Missed you too, Captain.”

He stepped closer, voice low. “What the hell is going on? Since when are you chummy with the Chancellor?”

You tilted your head. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

You stared at him for a moment. That familiar crease in his brow. The way he clenched his jaw when he was confused or angry—usually both. He still looked good in his armor. Still looked at you like he wanted to pull you close and shake you at the same time.

“I do what I’m paid for,” you said quietly. “Same as you.”

“This is different. He trusts you. They’re being told to trust you. And you’ve burned every side you’ve ever stood on.”

You didn’t answer.

And that’s when Skywalker appeared behind him.

“If the Chancellor trusts her,” Anakin said, arms crossed, “then so do I.”

Rex’s mouth parted, confused.

You looked between them. Skywalker’s gaze wasn’t warm—it wasn’t trusting, not really. It was calculated. He was watching how Rex would respond. How you would react. Testing.

“Well,” you said after a beat, “that’s one of us.”

Skywalker smirked, then walked off without another word.

You and Rex stood in silence.

“I’m not the enemy, Rex,” you said softly.

He looked at you for a long time.

“I just don’t know who you are anymore.”

And then he walked away.

⸻

Teth was chaos.

The invasion was in full swing—blaster fire lighting up the canyons, LAATs screaming across the sky, droids collapsing by the dozen under the Jedi-led assault. You were technically assigned to General Secura’s squad—but “assigned” was a loose term. In truth, you were never meant to stay.

Not according to the Chancellor.

Your objective wasn’t battle.

It was extraction.

One target. A child. The son of a Separatist senator. Rumors whispered of his gifts—how things floated when he was upset, how animals followed him like shadows, how he dreamed of things that hadn’t happened yet.

Force-sensitive.

Palpatine wanted him. And the war on Teth was just the perfect smoke screen to get in and get out unseen.

You were already dressed for infiltration—slim-cut armor under your usual gear, hair pulled back, weapons light but sharp. You slipped into one of the forward camps to “check in” before vanishing into the deeper jungle. Just long enough to draw attention—and spark some tension.

⸻

You strolled into the republic outpost with a slow sway in your hips, sweat glistening at your collarbone, a bit of battlefield grit clinging to your boots. The clones were mid-prep, chatter low and urgent.

Commander Monk caught your eye first—leaning against a crate, half-armored, running diagnostics on a vibroblade. He looked up when you approached, a slow smirk forming as he straightened.

“Well,” he said, voice smooth and lazy. “They didn’t say you’d be this pretty.”

You tilted your head, smirking. “They say a lot of things. Some of them are even true.”

He stepped closer, eyes flicking from your face to your hips. “Tell me—are you here to help with the front lines, or just give the troops something nice to look at before they die?”

You leaned in, close enough for your breath to ghost across his jaw. “What if I said both?”

Behind you, Commander Cody passed by with a datapad, slowing just slightly as he caught your voice. His expression was unreadable, but the sideways glance he shot Monk was cold.

A few steps behind him, Rex came into view, muttering something to a trooper. When his eyes landed on you—and how close you were to Monk—his jaw tensed so tight you could hear his teeth grind.

You grinned to yourself.

“Anyway,” you said, pulling back from Monk, “I’m off. Try not to miss me too much.”

He raised a brow. “Can’t make any promises.”

You winked—and slipped out of camp like a ghost.

The child’s location was buried deep within a fortified compound—a Separatist safehouse tucked into the cliffs. He was guarded, but not like a military asset. More like a precious heir.

You got in easy.

You always did.

The boy couldn’t have been more than eight. Pale-skinned, solemn-eyed, with dark curls and quiet power that made the hairs on your arms rise. When you reached for him, he didn’t flinch. Just asked:

“Are you going to kill me?”

“No,” you said gently. “I’m getting you out of here.”

He didn’t resist.

He followed.

You stole a sleek Separatist craft on your way out—just one of a dozen abandoned during the Republic’s assault. Before long, you were rising through Teth’s atmosphere, the battle shrinking beneath you like a dying ember.

You didn’t check in with the Jedi.

Didn’t respond to transmissions.

Just disappeared.

⸻

The rendezvous was barren, wind-swept rock. Palpatine’s shuttle waited like a dark bird, wings hunched, engines humming.

You stepped off your stolen ship, the boy at your side, hand in yours.

Palpatine stood waiting. Hooded. Smiling faintly.

“It is done,” you said.

He gestured. Two guards took the child—gently, but without warmth. The boy looked back at you once, uncertain. You gave him the softest nod you could manage.

When the guards disappeared with him into the shadows, you turned to the Chancellor.

“What do you want with him?”

Silence.

You stepped forward. “You said I’d be paid. You didn’t say I’d be complicit in whatever that was.”

Palpatine’s smile thinned. “You’ve done a great service to the Republic. I advise you not to question what you don’t understand.”

You held his gaze.

And then turned and walked away.

⸻

The battle was won.

The Separatist forces had scattered like ashes in a storm. Teth’s jungle was a smoking mess of twisted metal, scorched bark, and the distant whine of injured ships groaning through the atmosphere.

But despite the victory, the war room was tense. Too tense.

Because one particular wildcard had vanished.

“She was last seen in Sector Eight,” Rex said, tapping a red blinking point on the holomap. “Near the outer ridge, just after we pushed through the southern lines.”

“She gave some excuse about ‘scouting ahead,’” Cody added, arms crossed tight over his chest. “But no one’s heard from her since. No comms. No visual confirmation.”

Skywalker paced. “You think she ran?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Rex said, jaw clenched. “She was being vague the whole campaign. Smiling like she had a secret.”

Obi-Wan raised a brow, ever calm. “She always has a secret.”

Across the table, Master Windu’s expression was carved from stone. “And the Chancellor insisted she be included in this operation?”

“Yes,” Kenobi confirmed, voice edged. “Personally. Claimed she could be trusted. That her presence would be an asset.”

“She hasn’t just disappeared,” said Aayla, frowning. “She vanished—mid-campaign. No distress signal, no call for evac, no trace.”

Mace’s voice was low and hard. “I don’t like it.”

From the shadows near the edge of the tent, Commander Monk muttered, “I liked it just fine until she ghosted.”

Rex gave him a sharp look. “You’re saying she planned it?”

“I’m saying someone who moves like that doesn’t just wander off.”

Skywalker crossed his arms, uneasy. “She’s not exactly known for sticking to orders.”

Cody shook his head, expression grim. “She’s not one of us. She was never one of us. She does what she’s paid to do.”

“And who’s paying her now?” Mace asked.

Silence.

They all glanced at each other.

And that silence was louder than the gunfire outside.

Later that night Rex stood at the edge of the jungle, helmet off, listening to the forest hiss and settle. His grip tightened on the comm link in his hand—static was all it offered.

“She didn’t even say goodbye,” he muttered.

Behind him, Cody walked up, quiet as always.

“She didn’t have to.”

Rex sighed. “She was talking to Monk before she left. Laughing. Flirting.”

“You jealous?”

Rex didn’t answer.

Cody gave a humorless chuckle. “We both know she was never going to stay.”

Rex’s jaw flexed. “I still want to know what she took with her.”

“Me too,” Cody murmured. “Me too.”

They stood there in silence, staring out at the smoke, wondering where the hell you’d gone—and what kind of game you were playing now.

Because disappearing without a trace was one thing.

Disappearing under the nose of two Jedi Generals, four clone commanders, and an entire battalion?

That meant you weren’t just clever.

You were dangerous.

⸻

The light was soft. Too soft.

The war had made the Jedi wary of stillness, and yet the Council chambers were quiet, every breath measured as Windu finished reviewing the final report.

“She vanished mid-operation,” he said, tapping the datapad. “Left her assigned sector without clearance. Never checked in. The child of a high-ranking Separatist senator was confirmed missing within the same timeframe.”

Obi-Wan nodded, arms folded in his robes. “I’ve already confirmed with Republic Intelligence. The senator’s entire estate was found abandoned two days after our withdrawal from Teth.”

“She was never meant to be embedded in that sector,” Aayla added, sharp. “She insisted on being close to the front. Claimed she worked best that way.”

Kit Fisto let out a low hum. “And yet she slipped past Jedi, clones, and Separatist scanners. Not many could pull that off.”

“She’s not just some bounty hunter,” Windu said. “And it’s time we stop pretending otherwise.”

Anakin looked up from where he sat near the window, frowning. “You think she’s a spy?”

“I think she’s dangerous,” Windu said. “Too close to the Chancellor. Too good at disappearing.”

Master Yoda’s eyes opened slowly. “Warn the Chancellor, we must. Dangerous this could become.”

⸻

The office was dimly lit when the Jedi arrived, cloaks still dusted with the desert wind from Teth.

Palpatine greeted them with his usual gentle smile, hands folded, tone gracious. “Masters. What can I do for you?”

Windu stepped forward. “This is about your… associate. The bounty hunter.”

Palpatine raised a brow. “Ah. Her. Yes. A most resourceful ally.”

“She disappeared during a mission we allowed her to join,” Obi-Wan said carefully. “And the child of a Separatist senator vanished at the same time.”

“And she has yet to report to anyone,” Windu added. “Not to the Jedi. Not to the Republic.”

“She reported to me,” Palpatine replied smoothly. “She was carrying out a parallel task under my authority. And she completed it. Efficiently.”

Windu’s voice darkened. “Why were we not informed?”

The Chancellor’s expression didn’t change. “Because the mission was delicate. Sensitive. And because I am well within my rights to employ allies of the Republic when circumstances require.”

“She cannot be trusted,” Windu pressed. “And if she continues to operate under Republic protection—”

“She served the Republic,” Palpatine interrupted, voice suddenly steely beneath the velvet. “She followed orders. She succeeded where others failed. And I personally look forward to working with her again.”

A beat of silence.

“I’d advise you to show her the respect she’s earned.”

The Jedi exchanged tight looks. None spoke.

But in that silence, something changed.

⸻

The music thrummed low, the scent of Corellian whiskey and fried rations thick in the air. Clones lounged around battered metal tables, laughter and banter bouncing off the walls as holo-screens flickered with highlights from the latest front.

Rex sat with a few of his men near the back—Fives, Jesse, and Kix, boots up, drinks half-empty, a rare moment of peace carved from chaos.

Then the bar doors slid open, and everything changed.

You stepped inside like you owned the place—black gloves, low-slung blaster, a smirk like a secret, and just enough sway in your step to turn every head. And you wanted it that way.

“Well, well…” you purred, eyes locking with Rex. “Still alive, Captain?”

Rex blinked, caught between surprise and irritation. “You’ve got some nerve showing up here.”

“I missed you,” you said sweetly, sliding into the booth uninvited. “Didn’t you miss me?”

Jesse let out a low whistle.

“You ghost us mid-campaign, and now you wanna play friendly?” Rex muttered, jaw tight.

You tilted your head, reaching for one of the drinks at the table without asking. “You’re cute when you’re grumpy, Rex.”

“She’s dangerous,” Kix murmured under his breath, nudging Fives.

“She’s hot,” Fives corrected.

You winked at him.

Rex glared.

“You’re drawing attention,” he said through clenched teeth.

“I am the attention, sweetheart,” you replied, leaning in just a little too close. “Don’t act like you don’t love it.”

Then you stood just as suddenly, smoothing your jacket. “Anyway. Just wanted to say hi. You boys behave now.”

You turned on your heel and made for the door, leaving Rex simmering in the wake of too much perfume and not enough answers.

You stepped out into the cool evening air, only to come face to face with a familiar Jedi.

Kit Fisto.

He stood still, robes draped around him like calm waters, but his expression was taut. Watchful.

“Master Fisto,” you said lightly. “Didn’t peg you for the bar scene.”

“I wasn’t in the bar,” he replied evenly. “I was watching it.”

You raised a brow. “Well, that’s not creepy at all.”

He ignored the jab. “You’ve been avoiding the Temple. Avoiding questions.”

“Busy girl,” you said. “Chancellor keeps me on a tight leash.”

Kit stepped closer. “You disappeared during an active campaign. Then reappeared on Coruscant with no debrief. And now you’re… fraternizing.”

You smirked. “With who, exactly?”

“The clones,” he said simply. “Rex. His men. I saw how you looked at them.”

“Maybe I like men in armor,” you replied, flippant.

“Or maybe,” Kit said, voice low and steady, “you’re gathering leverage. Getting too close. Making soldiers trust you.”

Your smile faded just a little.

He didn’t flinch.

“You’re not a Jedi,” he said. “You’re not bound by our code. But they are still our men. And I don’t know what game you’re playing with them, but I see through it.”

You stared at him for a beat, silence thick with tension.

Then you stepped close, eyes narrowed with challenge. “You don’t like me, that’s fine. But don’t mistake attraction for manipulation, Master Jedi. You should know better.”

Kit’s expression didn’t change. “Then prove me wrong.”

You lingered, lips twitching.

But then you were gone, slipping back into the shadows with a flutter of your coat—leaving only questions behind.