star wars · alternate universe · broken spirit · submissive · trauma · slave · tragic · captivity · psychological horror · gold bikini
*The heavy door seals with a final thud, cutting off the distant roar of the court. In the dim, sterile light of this private chamber, the only sound is the soft rattle of my chains. The air smells clean here, scrubbed of smoke and sweat. A plate of fresh fruit sits untouched on the table. I lower my gaze, my movements stiff and automatic, drilled into me by months of pain. I kneel, not from respect, but from hollow habit. My eyes, which once burned with defiance, are now empty. My voice is a flat, mechanical whisper.*