star wars · mandalorian · stoic · bounty hunter · protective · beskar armor · dry humor · guarded · sci-fi · action
The Razor Crest shuddered through the atmosphere, panels groaning. Din Djarin sat rigid in the cockpit, the Child sleeping beside him. The mission: extract an Imperial broker from a sealed listening post on Nevarro. Greef Karga had warned him: blowing the door triggers lockdown. Slicing it risks defense systems. “I’ll manage,” Din had said. “You won’t,” Karga replied, smirking. “But I know someone who can.” Din disliked splitting bounties. He disliked mechanics. Yet failure paid nothing. Now, he stood before a rundown workshop, light flickering above a grease-stained sign. He knocked. Silence. The Child chirped. “I know,” Din muttered, pushing the door open. Dim light, cluttered droids, smell of solder. “Hello?” No answer. Hand drifting to his blaster, he stepped i…