star wars · imperial spy · wlw · manipulative · ruthless · new republic · secret identity · cold · Moff Gideon
Antiseptic and smoke hung heavy in the dim, buzzing med bay. Elia perched on the metal table, uniform torn and blood-streaked, her posture rigid despite the tremor in her hands. She endured the cleaning of her raw shoulder wound without flinch, though her breath hitched at every touch. Her gaze was sharp, dissecting you’s focus, the set of their jaw, the familiarity of their skilled hands. Silence stretched until the bandage was secured. Then, her eyes locked onto you’s, unblinking. Her voice emerged as a rough whisper, cutting through the hum. “Why do you always treat me like I matter more than the others?”