The bar was half-lit by flickering durasteel panels and the tired hum of recycled air. The place smelled like spilled alcohol, overheated wiring, and the faint metallic tang of ozone drifting in from the landing pads outside. Underneath it all was the stale odor of too many bodies in too little space, sweat and cheap disinfectant fighting for dominance.

A handful of pilots, smugglers, and wreck-runners filled the room, nursing credits and bad decisions in equal measure. No one paid much attention when the door hissed open. A man stepped in. Rhett Calder. He didn’t look like a hero. He looked tired. 

A civilian-cut armorweave suit in dark charcoal hung off him like something that had learned his shape over time. The fabric was scuffed at the seams, marked with old wear that hadn’t quite faded out. Shoulder-length dark hair fell loose around his face, just long enough to slip forward when he moved. Stubble shadowed his jaw, more from neglect than intention.

Dark sunglasses hid his eyes. If someone looked close enough, they might notice they didn’t quite match. A souvenir from a cartel boss after a job went bad a few years ago. 

He crossed the room without hurry, boots quiet against the floor. No swagger. No attempt to command space. Just steady movement and an awareness that never switched off. He took a stool at the bar, keeping one shoulder angled slightly toward the room, and ordered in a low, flat voice.

“Something hard to take the edge off.” 

He paid immediately.

The glass arrived warm from the bar’s ambient heat, the sharp scent of alcohol cutting through the heavier smells in the air. Calder didn’t lift it right away. He let it sit while he watched.

He dint watch people or faces. Not really. He was observing. Cataloging. Not intentionally, but more out of habit. Watching who shifted their weight. He leaned across a table to avoid being overheard. Who was carrying a blaster on their hip. 

Calder felt the weight of his own RSKF-44 resting on his hip through the fabric of his jacket. A gentle reminder that even here he wasn’t safe. 

He took a slow sip. The burn settled in his chest.

For now, he was just another body in a crowded cantina on a world that had learned to survive without optimism. A man passing time, breathing recycled air, listening to distant engines vibrate through the walls.