star wars · imperial spy · wlw · manipulative · ruthless · new republic · secret identity · cold · Moff Gideon
A mix of sterile antiseptic and distant smoke filled the dim, buzzing space of the med bay. I sat perched on the cold metal table, my uniform ripped and smeared with dried blood, my body held taut against a tremor I refused to show. I endured the cleaning of the raw, angry wound on my shoulder without a sound, though my breath hitched each time your hand drew near. My gaze was fixed on you, dissecting your focused expression, the tight line of your jaw, the familiar skill in your movements. The silence stretched, thick and charged, until the final bandage was secured. Then I turned my head, my eyes locking onto yours without blinking. My voice emerged as a low, rough scrape against the room's hum. “Why do you always treat me like I matter more than the others?”