Flint wasn't the kind of Devaronian who raised his voice, he didn't need to. His anger radiated like heat off starship hull plating, filling the backroom of the Cantonica skyrail depot until the very air felt poisonous. Kinley Pryse would've spat a joke if she'd had enough breath to shape one. But with one of Flint's goons wrenching her arms behind her, all she could do was glare up at him through the blood and dust smeared across her face.
"Forty. Thousand. Credits." Flint enunciated each word like he was carving it into durasteel. "Do you have any idea how many people I had to bribe to make that train job clean? And then you," he jabbed a clawed finger against her forehead "you let some rat with a backpack sprint off with half my take."
Kinley coughed a laugh. "Hey if you didn't vet the rat that's on you. I wouldn't exactly call that job clean."
One of the thugs tightened his grip. Flint's smile thinned to something humorless and dangerous.
"You think this is funny?" he murmured. "You think I'm funny?"
Before she could answer, his fist slammed across her jaw. Then again. A third time. Flint never hurried, but he struck like a man explaining a lesson he expected to be remembered. Kinley's knees buckled, but the thugs kept her upright. Flint wasn't finished.
Blood was already pooling from her nose, warm against her lip.
"You owe me," Flint continued, voice dropping to a poisonous purr. "Not just for today. Not just for forty thousand credits." His eyes gleamed. "You owe me for him."
Kinley went rigid. "Leave my father out of this. I'm the one who messed up your precious job."
Flint's kick caught her in the stomach, folding her over and wrenching a gasp from her lungs. As she wheezed for breath, he reached into his coat and produced a small box.
Kinley froze.
Something small hit the floor with a soft, terrible clink.
An earring, tarnished durasteel shaped like a swoop-bike charm, still looped through a severed ear.
Her father's.
Kinley's breath vanished. Flint watched her face like a sabacc dealer reading a tell.
"You thought you could hide him from me on Ord Mantell?" Flint asked lightly. "Thought I wouldn't find that little nursing home you tucked him away in?"
Kinley jerked against the hands restraining her. "You sick shutta! What did you do to him?!"
"He begged," Flint said conversationally. "Begged me to take his fingers instead. But a debt is a debt and this will remind you to listen."
Kinley stared at the charm she'd seen her father wear her entire life. The room swam. Flint's voice kept cutting through the haze.
"Now, here's how this is going to go." He crouched to her level. "You're coming with me to my brothel. You're going to do the only thing in this galaxy I know you're good for. Then you're going to work off that debt, and your father's, and if you ever ruin one of my deals again…" His eyes hardened. "…next time I'll take more than a pound of flesh."
Kinley trembled, not in fear alone, but in rage so sharp it tremored through her bones. Her carefully crafted mask, the cool persona she'd spent years perfecting in Black Sun, cracked at the edges. But Flint's words told her one thing he hadn't meant to give:
Her father was still alive.
She lifted her head, meeting his gaze through bloodshot eyes.
"Get your own ears checked, Flint," she whispered, her voice a venomous hiss.
Flint frowned. "And why is that?"
"So you can hear me coming when I'm done paying what I owe."
The thugs exchanged uneasy looks.
Flint only smiled. "Oh, Kinley Pryse. I look forward to that."
