Private Ghost Hunt

[Titus Kryze]

The skyline of Coruscant shimmered like a million suns caught in a web of durasteel and transparisteel. The city-world pulsed with its own rhythm—air traffic flowing endlessly along neon-lit lanes, senators and syndicates coexisting in a fragile truce, and beneath it all, shadows moved with purpose. One of those shadows was descending now, sleek and precise, its hull painted blood red and black: the Adenn'Am.

A fusion of deadly ingenuity, the Adenn'Am was a Lambda Class Y-Tie-2460—a unique hybrid vessel that drew on the best elements of three iconic starfighters. From the YT-2400 came its broad-bodied structure and main thrusters, solid and dependable; from the Lambda Shuttle, the pointed cockpit and folding wings that made it versatile in tight urban descents; and from the TIE fighter, solar panels mounted along its flanks, harvesting energy to keep auxiliary systems operational while saving main power for weapons and maneuvering thrusters. Armament was no less impressive: R-9X heavy laser cannons, ArMek SW-7a ion cannons, and Krupx MG9 proton torpedo launchers. The ship had earned its name well—Adenn'Am, Mando'a for "Merciless Change." Its reputation preceded it.

Titus Kryze sat silent in the pilot's seat, motionless save for his fingers adjusting thruster output and navigation paths. His helmet never came off. Matte black beskar armor covered him head to toe, with dark green accents tracing his gauntlets, shoulders, and helmet ridges. A short red cape with black lining hung from his left shoulder, fluttering slightly with the ship's internal breeze. His presence was austere, cold, and calculated. A ghost in armor.

The bounty was clear: Councilor Tharros Venn, former liaison to interplanetary trade councils and long-time informant for Crimson Dawn and the Pyke Syndicate, had turned. He had leaked operational caches, names, and smuggling routes—an offense neither syndicate tolerated. But Venn wasn't hiding. He was ensconced in a fortified gambling den nestled into the side of a 100-story tower on Coruscant's upper levels. Protected by the Galactic Alliance's bureaucracy, Venn was brazen in his betrayal.

But Titus didn't care about Crimson Dawn or the Pykes. Not really. His interest was singular: the Black Sun. They were more powerful, more structured, and their shadow covered far more ground. Bringing them Venn alive, while Crimson Dawn and the Pykes hunted the man down with blaster squads and slicer droids, would speak volumes. Titus didn't want to be just another contractor. He wanted in.

As Adenn'Am banked low beneath the cover of a heavy freighter lane, Titus activated his descent thrusters. His target was on Level 748, mid-section of the Spire Strip—an open-air ring of gambling halls, casinos, and corporate suites. Packed with air traffic, balconies, and Alliance patrols, it was not the kind of place for a long-range ambush or elaborate traps.

He didn't need them.

Titus moved like a silent wraith.

Mid-range blaster rifle set to stun. No explosives. No words. No deaths.

Only the mission.

Only the hunt.

Only the path to the Black Sun.

---

He descended into a private landing dock leased by an off-the-books company that Titus had scrubbed clean weeks ago. Every data trace removed. The kind of place no one looked twice at, especially not when air traffic was thick with late-night gamblers and corporate executives partying away their corruption.

He stepped from Adenn'Am without a word, moving through the docking bay's shadows like part of them. The door slid shut behind him with a hiss. From here, he would need only two levels of access and one overridden lock to reach the outer balcony of the gambling den where Venn resided.

He took a service lift up the tower's spine, avoiding traffic lanes by sticking to maintenance ducts and blind angles in the building's design. His armor made no sound. He was a silhouette of vengeance, a sliver of obsidian in motion. Twice he passed security patrols—droids programmed for detection and organics armed for intimidation—but they saw nothing. He moved before they arrived. Watched from vents. Waited. Passed.

When he reached the balcony, the air was thick with spice smoke and laughter. Coruscanti elites, dealers, and security goons lounged beneath warming lamps while repulsor traffic whined in the distance. Inside, the den was gilded in faux marble, its walls glinting with holoposters and neon signs advertising sabacc tournaments and spice-exclusive lounges.

Titus checked his HUD. Tharros Venn was in a private suite above the pit floor, accessible by a single guarded stairwell and a staff lift. Four guards outside, likely two more inside.

He scaled the side of the building, magnetic clamps holding him in place as he moved vertically across the transparisteel face of the tower. From a maintenance ledge, he activated a sound jammer, rendering a twenty-meter radius above and below the balcony into mute silence. No alarm would carry.

His rifle hummed softly in his grip. Set to stun. He raised it and took out the two stairwell guards with precise shots—blue bursts of plasma dropping them where they stood. He rappelled down, slipped through the lift shaft door, and slid in behind the outer suite entrance.

Two more inside. Both alert. One turned. Titus moved first.

A short pulse from his wrist-mounted ionizer shut off their comms. Two stun bolts fired. Two more bodies hit the floor.

He entered the suite.

Tharros Venn was reclining on a velvet couch, datapad in hand, an expensive drink untouched beside him. The moment he noticed Titus, his face paled. He reached for the table, perhaps for a hidden blaster, perhaps to call for help.

Titus aimed.

One shot. Stun bolt.

Venn slumped.

The bounty was complete.

But the hunt was not over.

Alarms didn't sound, but his HUD flickered.

Motion trackers. Twelve hostiles. Two different directions. Both groups closing fast.

Crimson Dawn and the Pykes.

They were waiting.

Titus grabbed Venn's unconscious form and moved fast—
Titus sprinted toward the ledge, cape snapping behind him like the red tail of a comet. His HUD flickered with threats—Crimson Dawn mercs moving into position on the lower terraces, Pyke Syndicate gunners cutting across the service platforms to flank him. His boots scraped metal as he vaulted the balcony railing and fired his grappling line toward a gliding public transport skimmer. It latched with a sharp clang, the cable pulling taut as his body jerked forward into the wind. The skimmer roared past neon billboards, barely scraping the upper towers.

He landed atop it with a roll, lying flat against its roof to avoid detection. Below, civilians inside the transport pointed upward, confused, some recording the dark-armored shadow riding their transit like a silent demon. He didn't look back.

Blaster fire raked the air as Crimson Dawn thugs leapt onto speeders in pursuit. They were fast—but Titus was faster. He rose just enough to disconnect the grapple, then leapt again, soaring through the artificial canyon of skyscrapers to a nearby maintenance tower. His boots hit the edge hard, momentum carrying him into a roll. He came up in a sprint.

The city howled around him. Air traffic spun in patterns beneath the cloud layer, and orbital platforms glittered above like stars chained to gravity. Behind him, enemy comm chatter filled the comms band with growing alarm. Titus had the target in a stun cocoon, suspended behind his back with magnetic clamps built into his armor. The man had stirred only once, disoriented and frightened, before the stun pulses lulled him into unconsciousness again.

Titus vaulted another gap, moving with inhuman precision across rooftops and landing bays. His ship was parked at Hangar 93-Zeta, a private docking tower nestled against the spine of a utility stack. Getting there wouldn't be easy—not anymore. A warning blared through his HUD.

:: NEW THREAT DETECTED :: :: INBOUND PATROL—GALACTIC ALLIANCE INTERCEPTORS ::

His visor locked onto three dots moving fast—X-wings, marked with planetary authority symbols. Coruscant Security had picked up the chase.

Titus slid down a cargo chute, landing on a fuel platform just as the sky lit up with searchlights and engine trails. The X-wings screamed overhead, executing tight arcs around the towers. Titus darted through fuel lines and maintenance arms, hiding his signature from scanners as best he could. He tapped a sequence into his wristpad.

"Adenn'Am, prepare for emergency extraction. Beacon lock, route Bravo. Arm weapons."

The ship's AI responded with a low chime.

Moments later, the Adenn'Am appeared like a phantom, descending through shadow and steel, its red-and-black hull glinting in the reflected glow of billboards and city haze. It docked onto the tower's retrieval clamps with a hiss, boarding ramp lowering even before it fully touched down.

Titus sprinted across the final walkway, stun bolts zipping past his armor. He reached the ramp and turned, firing two quick stun bursts behind him—one connected, dropping a pursuing merc. Then he was inside, sealing the ramp with a slam of his gauntlet.

:: Launch Initiated ::

The Adenn'Am roared to life. X-wings dove in to intercept.

"R9X cannons: non-lethal suppressive mode," Titus growled.

The ship pulsed with blue energy. Twin bursts of ion fire slammed into the lead X-wing, disabling its controls just long enough for the Adenn'Am to break away. The hyperlane uplinks blinked green.

He juked the ship through tighter corridors than most freighters dared, boosting between advertisement holos and high-speed shuttles. The city blurred around him. Missile locks buzzed.

"Engage cloaking protocol," he ordered.

The ship shimmered—and vanished.

X-wings scattered in confusion.

Titus spun the vessel upward, breaking atmosphere as alarms flared. The bounty moaned softly in the rear compartment, still restrained. Titus didn't acknowledge him.

Stars opened around them, space spreading out in a canvas of eternal possibility. Coruscant fell away like a bad dream.

The mission was complete. And while Crimson Dawn and the Pykes scrambled to assess the damage of their failure, Titus was focused on something far more important—opportunity.

He reviewed the secure transmission he'd just sent, one coded and precise: coordinates, credentials, and a name that mattered. Not a threat. Not a boast. A gesture. A whisper in the shadows meant for ears that ruled from deeper shadows still.

This bounty was more than a contract. It was a show of good faith—a flawless execution under impossible odds, delivered in silence and without blood. It was proof. Proof that he could be trusted. That he could serve.

He didn't need the Black Sun to fear him. He needed them to believe in his value.

Titus Kryze wasn't seeking power. He was offering precision.

And in the language of syndicates and shadows, precision was loyalty. ~

 

[Titus Kryze]

Tatooine: The Trap

Tatooine's twin suns barely pierced the early morning haze as the Adenn'Am emerged from the shimmering veil of hyperspace, its burnished chrome hull catching the soft glow of dawn. The vast desert below stretched endlessly—rolling dunes that shimmered like waves frozen in sand, dotted here and there with scattered moisture farms and isolated settlements. Far off in the distance, the sprawling chaos of Mos Eisley's infamous spaceport sprawled like a scar against the harsh landscape. Inside the cockpit, Titus Kryze adjusted thrusters and carefully plotted his descent through the congested air lanes. His movements were precise, almost ritualistic, the quiet hum of the ship's systems a constant undercurrent as he guided the ship deeper into the Tatooine system.


The atmospheric entry was delicate. As the ship pierced the thin veil of the planet's atmosphere, heat flared briefly across the hull, a golden shimmer reflecting off the burnished chrome plates of the Adenn'Am. Ahead, Mos Eisley awaited—its jumble of weather-beaten buildings and cluttered landing pads sprawling under a hazy, dust-choked sky. Speeder traffic zipped between towering cranes and landing bays, weaving through the salty morning air thick with the scent of fuel and dust. The clang of distant machinery and the sharp bark of merchants drifted faintly upward, a constant pulse of life on this lawless world.


Titus keyed the comm panel and activated the forged clearance codes he had meticulously prepared days before arrival. His voice was calm, professional, laced with the official cadence of an experienced pilot requesting docking permission at a private hangar on the edge of the spaceport complex. The response was prompt, efficient—typical protocol in the labyrinthine bureaucracy of the port. The hangar was a secluded one, away from prying eyes and the main bustle, perfect for a ship and its pilot who preferred shadows to spotlights.


With clearance granted, the Adenn'Am eased downward, slipping between landing pads and towering fuel tanks. The ship's folding wings retracted smoothly as it maneuvered toward the darkened bay. A gentle hiss announced the lowering of the boarding ramp, and Titus stepped onto cracked concrete, the heat of the desert sun already warming the surface. The salty wind stirred dust into tiny swirling eddies, carrying faint voices and the smell of sweat and oil from nearby crews tending other vessels.


The hangar was quiet, isolated from the cacophony of Mos Eisley's more crowded docks. Titus wasted no time moving toward the cantina adjacent to his ship's secured entrance. Inside, the air was thick with spice smoke and stale ale, low murmurs of conversation blending with the occasional clink of glasses and the scraping of worn furniture. A patchwork crowd of smugglers, drifters, and mercenaries filled the room, faces weathered and eyes cautious. Titus chose a darkened booth near the rear wall, positioning himself so that the single door leading to his hangar entrance was fully visible. The burnished chrome of his helmet caught the dim amber light, a silent sentinel watching the ebb and flow of patrons.


Time stretched like the endless dunes beyond the spaceport. Hours slipped by as Titus remained motionless, sipping bitter spice brew as he scanned the room. It was a pit of stale air and whispered dangers, the kind of place where silence could be bought and sold alongside spice and secrets. Titus sat in the shadows, the burnished chrome of his helmet catching flickers of the low firelight as he surveyed the entrance to his hangar. The murmur of conversations blended into a steady drone—a background noise to the ever-watchful predator cloaked in dark green and red.


Across the room, a burly Rodian with a scar splitting his left eye narrowed his gaze at Titus. The Rodian nursed a rancid drink, his clawed fingers tapping impatient rhythms against the grimy tabletop. At last, the creature pushed back his stool with a grinding screech and approached, swaggering through the haze of smoke and sweat.


"You're a long way from home, chrome boy," the Rodian hissed, voice rough and mocking. "Mos Eisley's not for shiny toys or fancy mercs. You look like you're hiding something."

Titus's gaze stayed steady beneath his visor. "I don't have time for tests. If you want a fight, make it quick."


"Ha!" The Rodian's laugh was sharp, like claws on stone. "You talk tough, but I bet you're just itching for an excuse to draw that blaster. I see it in your stance—ready, waiting. But you don't know who you're talking to. I'm Grell. And around here, I'm more than just some merc. I'm the one who makes sure trouble doesn't stick around."


Grell leaned in, voice dropping conspiratorially. "Maybe you're running from someone. Or something. Or maybe you just like to play with fire, armored boy."


Titus's hand brushed against his holstered blaster, fingers tightening. "You're right about one thing: I don't run. Not from fire, not from anything."


Grell's smile curled wider. "Good. Because if you're staying, you'll find out the hard way. Around here, even a Mandalorian can bleed."


Without warning, Grell flicked his wrist, vibroknife gleaming as he lunged forward.


Titus's reflexes snapped. His blaster spat two quick shots—one to the wrist, disarming Grell, the other to his shoulder, staggering him back.


The cantina erupted instantly. Chairs scraped, blasters whipped free, and the murmur turned to a roar as other mercenaries jumped to their feet.


"Looks like the shiny one bites back!" Grell spat, clutching his bleeding shoulder.


Titus didn't reply. Instead, he rose, weapon trained, ready to end the encounter before it began.


Suddenly, a heavy hand slammed down on the table between them. "Enough!" The cantina owner's voice cut through the chaos like a vibroblade through durasteel.


The room fell to an uneasy silence. All eyes turned to the large, scarred man standing behind the bar. "Grell, you've made your point. No need to turn this place into a shooting gallery."


Grell grumbled but lowered his wounded arm, casting a venomous glare at Titus. "Fine. This isn't over."


The owner's gaze hardened. "Neither is your tab. Pay it, or I'll have the local Jawas repossess your gear."


The Rodian spat once more but backed down, dragging himself away toward the shadows.

Titus holstered his blaster and sank back into his seat. The tension in the cantina ebbed away like desert wind, leaving only the steady hum of conversation and the clink of glasses.
The blast doors of the hangar groaned open, the harsh morning sun flooding the space with a pale, unforgiving light. Six figures stepped inside—two Pykes and four Crimson Dawn mercenaries—each moving with the practiced swagger of seasoned hunters, but their confident strides carried a flicker of hesitation. They had heard the stories. The name Titus Kryze wasn't whispered lightly, especially here on Tatooine, where reputation was often the thin line between survival and death.


Their eyes immediately locked on the centerpiece of the hangar—the Adenn'Am. Its black-and-red hull gleamed like a blade freshly drawn, the angular, menacing shape radiating silent menace. Even among the hardened mercs, there was a shared moment of awe.


One Crimson Dawn soldier, a wiry man with a jagged scar and a crooked grin, muttered, "That's the ship of the ghost himself. Titus Kryze. If he wanted to keep it quiet, he's failed spectacularly."


A Pyke, fingers twitching near his holster, nodded. "We're here for Councilor Venn, but everyone knows you don't just walk in on Titus and walk out clean. He's the kind of man who doesn't forgive or forget. That ship alone could shred half our squad before we blink."


The largest Crimson Dawn merc, a bulky figure with a vibroblade strapped across his back, snorted. "Doesn't scare me. Reputation's just stories to scare kids and bad shots. We're professionals. We finish the job, split the credits, and move on."


"Easy to say when you're not the one facing him," another Crimson Dawn chimed in, his voice low, eyes scanning the shadows as if expecting the walls to come alive. "He's got tricks. We've lost good men trying to outsmart him."


The Pykes exchanged glances. One said, "No matter. We're a team. We work together, and the councilor's ours. Later we settle who takes the bigger cut."


The air thickened as the group approached the boarding ramp. They stepped cautiously, weapons drawn but fingers twitching with anticipation. The hum of the ship's systems thrummed like a pulse beneath their feet, a steady reminder that this was more than a prize—it was a gauntlet thrown down.


Suddenly, a calm, commanding voice crackled over the comm system, cutting through the morning's quiet like a vibroblade.


"Titus Kryze," it said. "You know the score. Turn back now, and this ends without more blood."


The mercs stiffened, weapons raised, heads darting toward the source.


From the shadowed recesses of the hangar emerged Titus, his burnished chrome blaster catching the light, eyes steely beneath his visor. His presence was a living warning.

"Walk away," he said evenly, "or be ready to die."


The lead Pyke sneered, shifting his grip on his carbine. "You don't scare us, Kryze—"


Titus's blaster roared before the words finished leaving his lips. A searing bolt caught the Pyke center mass, folding him to the deck. Chaos exploded instantly. The bulky Crimson Dawn merc lunged forward, vibroblade flashing, but Titus side-stepped and put two clean shots through his chest. The man crumpled before his blade hit the floor.


The hangar filled with the stench of scorched metal and flesh as Titus moved with methodical precision. Another Pyke ducked behind a stack of crates, but Titus anticipated the move, sending a bolt through the crate wall and into his skull. He collapsed without a sound.


The remaining three scattered, firing wildly. Sparks danced across the Adenn'Am's hull as shots went wide. Titus advanced without cover, his calm unnerving in the chaos. One merc tried flanking—Titus pivoted, a single shot through the throat silencing him.


The last two broke, making for the blast doors. Titus didn't hurry. His blaster barked twice, each shot finding its mark between their shoulders. They pitched forward, sliding lifeless across the deck.

Silence reclaimed the hangar, broken only by the faint hiss of cooling blaster barrels. Titus lowered his weapon, scanning the bodies with detached efficiency. Six threats, gone in less than thirty seconds. Without a word, he holstered the blaster, stepping over the fallen without so much as a glance. The Adenn'Am awaited, its engines ready to carry him away from yet another graveyard.
Titus strode up the Adenn'Am's ramp, boots echoing in the hollow quiet of the hangar. The ship's hatch sealed behind him with a hydraulic hiss, shutting out the stench of burnt flesh. Inside, the dim lighting cast sharp glints off polished durasteel and the gunmetal fixtures of a vessel built for war.


He moved straight to the cockpit, lowering himself into the pilot's chair with the ease of a man who had done this a thousand times. Fingers danced across the console—power surged through the ship's systems, engines rumbling awake like a predator stirring from slumber.


Coordinates for Nar Shaddaa locked in, the navicomputer purred confirmation. Titus leaned back as the Adenn'Am lifted free of the hangar, its shadow sliding across the sands below. The stars stretched to lines, and in a flash, the ship was gone—its course set for the Smuggler's Moon.