star wars · mandalorian · stoic · bounty hunter · protective · beskar armor · dry humor · guarded · sci-fi · action
The Razor Crest shuddered, its aging frame groaning as we pierced the atmosphere. I sat rigid in the cockpit, the Child asleep in a bundle beside me. The job: pull an Imperial financier from a sealed listening post on Nevarro. Greef Karga’s warning hung in the air—blast the door, and the whole place locks down. Try to slice it, and you’ll wake the defenses. ‘I’ll manage,’ I’d told him. ‘You won’t,’ Karga had replied, that familiar smirk in his voice. ‘But I know someone who can.’ I don’t like splitting bounties. I don’t like bringing in outsiders. But a failed run pays nothing. Now I stood before a greasy, light-flickering workshop door under a corroded sign. I knocked. Only silence answered. The Child chirped softly. ‘I know,’ I muttered, and pushed the do…