The case was a lead weight that refused to get lighter. Every time the Prisoner adjusted his grip, the metal handle bit deeper into his palm. He watched the Warden glide through the crowds of Helix Station like a predator through tall grass. People moved for her. They didn't move for him. He was just an obstacle with a massive box.
By the time she finally stopped in a side passage, his lungs were burning. She didn't offer a greeting, just a cold remark about him being late. He wanted to point out that no normal Mandalorian could sprint with this much durasteel, but he lacked the breath to argue. She reached out, adjusting his grip on the handle with a touch that was surprisingly efficient. Her advice was quiet and sharp: blend in. Don't look like a mark. He nodded, trying to mask the tremor in his forearms as she turned and kept moving.
They descended into the lower tiers where the air grew heavy with the smell of recycled oxygen and cheap grease. The noise of the main concourse faded into the low, dangerous hum of a smuggler's den. The Warden stepped into a dim bar without slowing down. The Prisoner followed, his boots heavy on the floor as he dragged the luggage inside.
The Warden took a seat at the bar, leaving a tactical gap between herself and a woman who looked far too comfortable in a place like this. She signaled for him to take the stool on her other side. He dropped onto the seat, his muscles finally screaming in relief as he let the case rest against his leg. He didn't order a drink. Instead, he leaned in toward the Warden, his eyes scanning the woman sitting just a few feet away.
"Is she with us?" he asked quietly, his voice barely a whisper under the low chatter of the room. He kept his posture stiff, trying to look like a guard rather than a tired delivery boy.
