@thegreenkid

Chicago gleamed under the glow of bars and nightclubs. It was 1933: fashion dictated dancing until dawn and, for the first time in years, raising a glass legally.

The city never slept. Crowds celebrated the arrival of Franklin D. Roosevelt and the slow awakening after the Crash of '29. Others, more somber, warned of the rise of Adolf Hitler in Germany, foreshadowing dark omens.

The fall of Capone had left a vacuum in the mob. Frank Nitti, Paul Ricca, and Tony Accardo took control, restructuring their operations: illegal casinos, brothels, extortion, and loan sharking became the new pillars of the business.

But Richard Rent had nothing to celebrate. The detective—or what was left of him—huddled against the cold concrete of a dark alley, just behind one of Chicago’s most famous clubs: the Break O’ Dawn.

His overcoat, once a symbol of authority, was now nothing but a tattered rag that made him blend in with the trash, helping him remain hidden from the society he had once served. With his fedora pulled down to his brows and his shoulders hunched, Richard clutched a leather bag as if he were guarding the remnants of his humanity inside it, seeking warmth and comfort against the cold asphalt that paved the streets of Chicago.

He remembered well how he had ended up there. In 1917, the government people forced him to enlist just like many other young men, compelling them to leave their lives behind; leaving behind his parents, who depended on him, for a conflict that others had caused. His friends marched too, in search of the promised glory, where they would be called heroes...

A year later, only he returned.

Upon returning to New York, in a hospital, a telegram erased what little hope he had left of recovering the peace he knew before ever having to wield a weapon: his parents had died in a car crash. They hadn't given him many details about it, only that the accident seemed to have something to do with a robbery...

He was alone. He had no home to return to, nor anyone to return to.

Richard bought a ticket to Chicago, where his military merits opened the doors of the Chicago Police Department. After two years in the Academy, he managed to become a cop and, over time, climbed through the system until he reached detective.

The door to the Break O’ Dawn swung open, letting music and laughter spill out. A young woman with brunette hair stepped outside. The shimmer of her dress seemed to compete with the marquee lights, as if it resisted leaving the stage. The shadow of the alley claimed her. Every flash of light was a reminder of the diva who had just sung on that stage inside, where bosses and all kinds of people enjoyed her siren-like voice, though her quick steps revealed the weight of her anguish. With her hands pressed against her chest, she walked as if trying to protect herself from a world that pursued her.

The door to the Break O’ Dawn closed behind her, abruptly cutting off the music and laughter. The alley fell silent, barely broken by the distant murmur of a saxophone fading into the city's smoke.

Richard looked up from his shadowed corner in that alley. The shimmer of the silver dress cut through the gloom like lightning, and for an instant, everything seemed to stop. The marquee lights reflected off the sequins like stars trapped in fabric, while the young woman moved forward with quick steps, her hands pressed against her chest, as if trying to hold in a secret far too heavy, seemingly unaffected by the city's chill.

The detective watched as her silhouette was cut against the alley's fog. He had seen many women leave that club, but none with that blend of beauty and fragility. The contrast was brutal: a diva who minutes before dominated the stage, now turned into prey of the night.

Richard stood up slowly, his tattered coat scraping against the damp wall. He didn't know her name yet, but in that instant, he understood that this woman was different... Her fine features, which under spotlights must have looked lethal, now showed a woman in desperation—a small fawn fleeing from hunters.

She stopped a few meters ahead, breathing heavily, as if the cold Chicago air wasn't enough to calm her anguish. For a brief instant, Richard’s eyes locked with the honey-colored eyes of that woman, and everything around them seemed to freeze: the smoke suspended in the air, the distant murmur of the city, even the detective's own heartbeat.

But that moment shattered when the door to the Break O’ Dawn flew open again.

"Doll, the boss is waiting for you."

The gruff voice echoed through the alley. Two of Moretti's men stood silhouetted against the club's light, wearing dark suits with weapons concealed beneath them, their expressions cold, ready to escort her back to their master’s lap.

The brunette turned around slowly, her lips trembling before she spoke firmly:

"Tell Moretti I'm not going. He doesn't own me, no matter what he thinks."

One of the men smiled disdainfully, revealing a gold tooth that glinted under the marquee light.

"Dominic doesn't take 'no' for an answer. And you know it."

The name hit Richard like a blow: Dominic “Nicky” Caruso Moretti, the mob boss's son, notorious for his arrogance and his obsession with the club's women. Moreover, Richard remembered having accepted money from the Morettis back then—the family that competed for control of Chicago against the Al Capone-era mob, letting them run their operations under the radar.

The gray-haired brunette man, still hidden in the shadows, clutched the leather bag against his chest. Instinct screamed at him not to intervene... but the young woman's gaze, laden with fear and defiance, dragged him toward an inevitable fate.

The taller man managed to grab the young woman's arm, drawing a gasp from her. The other stepped too close, with that crooked smile that reeked of a threat. Neither noticed a figure rising from the shadows.

"Come on, doll, don't make it worse," he said, pulling her roughly.

Richard took another step into the light. The echo of his shoes against the concrete made the two thugs spin around. The young woman seized the moment to struggle, but the man's hand remained dug into her arm like a claw, hurting her skin, leaving behind marks that would surely turn into bruises she'd have to hide.

"She said no," Richard repeated, this time in a tone that brooked no argument.

The taller one let out a laugh.

"And who the hell are you? Some lost drunk?"

Richard advanced slowly, with the calm of someone who had already seen too many wars. His low-pulled hat hid his eyes, but his voice was an edge.

"I'm the man who's going to teach you some manners."

The thug tried to shove Richard, but the detective moved swiftly: a sharp twist of his shoulder was enough to throw the man off balance. The second one threw a clumsy punch, which Richard ducked with a sidestep, countering with a push that slammed him against the damp alley wall.

The silence filled with ragged breathing. The young woman, finally free, backed away a few steps, her honey eyes fixed on Richard, confusion clear in her gaze as she looked at her unexpected savior.

"You don't know who you're messing with," the taller one spat, regaining his footing.

"I do," Richard replied, adjusting his hat, slightly revealing his features in the reflection of the lights. "With men who don't know how to listen or understand."

The two thugs looked at each other, hesitant. Dominic Moretti’s name carried weight in the air, but the presence of this vagrant, who seemed to hide much more beneath those rags, had shifted the balance. For the first time, the young woman wasn't alone.

The alley remained thick with silence after the scuffle. The two men dusted themselves off, glaring at Richard with a mix of rage and caution. The young woman, still trembling, stayed behind him, as if her silver shimmer needed the detective's shadow—hidden in that image of a beggar—to survive.

The taller one spat on the ground, adjusting his jacket.

"This isn't over. Dominic doesn't forget. You're going to regret this, doll... refusing to be his."

The other, with his crooked smile and his gold tooth glinting under the marquee light, added:

"You just bought yourself a lot of trouble, pal. And Moretti always collects his debts."

Richard didn't answer. Shielding the woman behind him, he simply watched them with that dangerous calm that spoke louder than any threat. The men backed away slowly until they disappeared into the club's light, leaving behind the echo of their footsteps and the certainty that they would return.

The young woman took a deep breath, as if for the first time all night she could fill her lungs. Her honey eyes sought the detective's, grateful and terrified all at once.

Richard looked down, adjusted his hat, and barely muttered:

"You're safe now... for tonight."

The young woman observed him, noticing the man's brown eyes, gratitude reflected in her own. But both knew that Dominic Moretti's shadow had already stretched over them, and that the real danger was just beginning.

The echo of the thugs' footsteps faded until it was lost to the night. The alley fell silent, thick with smoke and tension, leaving them alone. The young woman took a deep breath, as if she could finally fill her lungs, but her honey eyes were still trembling.

Richard stood his ground, watching the Break O’ Dawn's door, hoping it wouldn't open again. Finally, he turned and looked down at her.

"It's over," he murmured, "but not for long."

She shook her head in a desperate gesture.

"I can't go back to my apartment... Dominic will find me there. He's done it before."

Richard studied her in silence. The shimmer of her silver dress looked out of place in that damp alley, as if she belonged to another world.

"Then don't go back," he said calmly. "There's a diner a few blocks from here. Let's sit down, get something warm to eat, and think."

"How can I trust that you won't do anything to me...?" the young woman questioned, looking at the vagrant.

"Because if I had wanted to do something to you, I would have done it already," the man replied, before offering his arm. The woman took it carefully.

They walked together through the city, beneath streetlamps that barely illuminated the wet sidewalks. The wind dragged old newspapers along, and the distant murmur of a saxophone blended with the rumble of engines. The diner's sign appeared like a refuge: a blinking red neon that promised coffee and warmth.

Inside, the air smelled of grease and fresh coffee. The staff moved routinely, oblivious to the tension that accompanied the pair, as if it weren't the dead of night. As they entered, the few people inside paid them no mind, though a few curious onlookers were drawn to the bizarre sight of a club singer in such a bright, elegant outfit walking with a vagrant.

Richard chose a corner table, far from the door and close to the kitchen, allowing the heat radiating from it to help the young woman warm up. She sat across from him, her hands still wrapped around herself, while her dress shimmered under the artificial light like a jewel forgotten in a place far too ordinary.

A waitress with a kind face attended to them, taking their orders. Richard ordered black coffee and a slice of bread with jam, though when they brought his order, he barely touched it. Meanwhile, the young woman ordered a cup of chamomile tea to soothe her nerves, which wouldn't fade even as she held the cup.

"You should go to a hotel," Richard said, breaking the silence. "Moretti isn't going to stop. If you stay at your apartment, he'll find you."

She looked at him, a flash of desperation in those eyes.

"And what if he follows me there? What if he won't leave me alone?"

Richard observed her; the young woman was very beautiful. That hair looked like pure silk, and that dress perfectly fitted her hourglass figure. It was a shame that someone so beautiful was being dragged against her will into the mob world; someone innocent who had nothing to do with that world, yet by the whim of a mobster's son, was being forced to get her hands dirty.

The brown-haired man set his cup on the table with a dull thud—not out of violence, but out of resolve.

"Then you won't go alone. I'll go with you."

The silence grew heavy. Outside, the neon light flickered as if the city itself foretold what was to come. The young woman looked up, her gaze locking with the resolute eyes of that man, and for the first time that night, a thread of hope made its way through the smoke and the fear.

"But... why are you helping me? You don't know me... You don't even know my name," the jazz singer whispered.

"My ledger is already stained in red... Besides, it's not fair for someone like you to get caught up in this just over the simple whim of a spoiled brat."

Richard pulled a few cents from his coat, leaving them on the table, adjusted his hat, and stood up.

"Let's go. The night is just getting started, and Moretti isn't going to wait."

“Your helmet’s vocal modulator sustained a significant damage,” the droid says as he picks up the beskar. “Repairs are possible, but replacement might be more efficient.”

Din just stares forward at the stained and dark wall in front of him, eyes glassy as he gives out the command. “Fix it.”

His own voice takes him by surprise, hitting him how it sounds without the helmet. It is low, rough from misuse, purely human. Not the flattened mechanical sound that he has been listening to for decades now. Not the filtered growl that made him sound tougher, colder, safer, turning him into someone that everyone feared.

Right now he is just a man.

“The droid continues to speak, completely oblivious to the storm building up in Din. “You will need to remove the internal—”

“Fix it,” Din repeats sharply, snapping at the poor droid. His voice fills the room again, echoing off the walls, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to take deep breaths to calm himself down. He feels too exposed even in front of a lifeless robot.

The droid turns slightly towards him, studying. “Your elevated heart rate suggests distress.”

“I said fix it. And I won’t repeat myself again,” Din says, hand falling on his blaster placed on the cot beside him in a threatening attempt.

Silence settles over them after the words left his lips, the droid getting back to work. Din swallows hard, his throat suddenly feeling too tight. He hates hearing his own voice, but not because it sounds too weak.

He hates it because it feels too familiar.

The modulated helmet voice had become armor for him long before the beskar ever did. It makes a good job at separating him from fear. From memories. From the terrified child who was dragged through smoke and ash, hiding while droids slaughtered everyone around him, including his family.

But this voice is now the voice of that small child. Rougher, lower, but still unmistakably his.

Din looks toward his helmet in the droids claws. Its dark T-visor reflects the bright lights above. Waiting for him.

“Repairs will require several hours,” the droid speaks.

Several hours. Something cold twists low in Din’s stomach. The idea of being this exposed for this long is just unbearable for him.

“No.”

“You are injured. I don’t advise traveling in your condition.”

Din stands up too quickly, the pain intensifying in his side so much that his vision blurred for a second. When he manages to regain his composure he quickly snatches the helmet from the droid, clutching it against his chest, grip so strong on it like someone might take it away from him again.

The droid pauses, turning its head. “You can’t wear it while I’m repairing it.”

“I’ll manage.”

“You appear emotionally attached to the object.”

Object.

Din almost lets out a loud laugh at that. But instead, he just lowers himself back on the cot with a strained groan, resting the helmet in his lap. His gloved thumb unconsciously brushes the small scratch close to the visor. One that is not the result of a fight, but something Grogu had caused years ago with curious little claws while sitting in his lap in the cockpit.

The innocent memory hit him hard enough to steal all the oxygen from his lungs.

Tiny green hands hitting different buttons and switches. Soft coos echoing through the Razor Crest. Sleepy weight curled against his side during hyperspace jumps.

But now it is all gone.

“You are showing signs of anxiety,” the droid observes.

Din shuts his eyes, letting out a long and tired sigh. “Just fix it.”

The droid finally goes quiet, taking the helmet from Din’s lap again as he starts working on it.

Without the modulator filtering every breath, the room feels unbearably intimate. Din can hear himself too clearly now. Every exhale, every groan of pain, every shift in his breathing.

These are all human sounds. Vulnerable ones. And he hates to feel like this. He feels more naked than without an armor because these voices remind him that there is still a person under all the metal.

But he isn’t entirely sure about who that person was anymore.

The droid eventually turns back towards him, holding the repaired helmet out in Din’s direction. “Test.”

Din hesitates for a second before taking the helmet from the droid’s claws, and the moment the heavy beskar settles in his palms, his hands immediately feel steadier. He puts the helmet on carefully, sealing himself in complete darkness again.

“Test,” he says, and a shaky breath leaves his lips, relief so intense it borders on shameful when he hears the distorted and mechanical sound again.

The droid tilts its head. “Your stress indicators have stabilized.”

Din nods, standing up from his place and taking his blaster into his hand, feeling safe and protected again, ready to go.

“This is the Way.”