Private Neon Teeth & Open Pockets

[Zara Voss]

“The Gilded Ghost”

Neon didn’t just light The Static Veil—it bled through it. Magenta, cyan, and sickly violet clung to the haze like bruises, cutting through drifting smoke and the humid tang of recycled air that tasted faintly of spice and bad decisions. The bassline was less music and more structural assault, rattling the bar’s corroded framework in a steady, punishing rhythm. Somewhere overhead, exposed conduits sparked intermittently, as if the place itself was threatening to give up on existence at any moment.

Under her alias Alema Nyx, Zara Voss fit into it like she’d been poured there. She leaned against the bar with deliberate ease, one hip angled, posture relaxed enough to pass for indulgent but balanced just enough to react without warning. Violet light crawled across her synthleather bodysuit in slow pulses, tracing every contour with an almost hypnotic rhythm. Ink curled over her skin in intricate patterns, disappearing beneath straps and reappearing where the glow kissed her just right. Piercings caught the neon in sharp flashes. Everything about her was intentional—crafted to draw the eye, to hold it, to make people think they understood what they were looking at. They never did.

Her drink rested loosely in her hand, untouched more often than not. The glass was a prop. The posture was a performance. The distraction was the weapon. Her attention, however, was razor-focused. Three booths in, half-swallowed by smoke and flickering holo-ad spill, sat Vek Talroth.

The Rodian was doing a poor job pretending he wasn’t terrified. He shifted too often. Checked reflections that weren’t meant for him. Let his fingers stray—again and again—to the matte-black cylinder locked to his belt. Subtle, if you didn’t know better. Obvious, if you did. Zara’s gaze passed over him like anyone else in the room, never lingering long enough to raise suspicion, but she had already mapped his habits, his tells, the rhythm of his anxiety.

And the prize. The data vault was clean, military-grade, and deliberately unmarked. Which meant it was worth more than anything else in the room combined. Imperial remnant encryption, if the whispers were right. Payroll routes. Bribe chains. Names tied to credits that were never meant to be traced. The kind of information that didn’t just sell—it shifted leverage.

And Vek had the audacity to wear it like jewelry. Zara’s lips curved faintly. Amateur. The problem wasn’t the take. The take would be easy. It always was. The problem was the timing.

Four Nikto sat scattered just close enough to be inconvenient, not close enough to be useful. Half-drunk, heavily armed, and operating on the kind of loose vigilance that came from knowing violence was always an option. Vek himself kept moving, rotating booths, never staying still long enough for comfort to settle in. Paranoid, but not disciplined. The worst kind of combination.

Zara needed a gap. Three seconds to unclip. One to secure. Two to disappear. Five, if she felt like showing off.

Her fingers tapped once against the rim of her glass, the motion subtle, rhythmic—counting without appearing to count. She let her gaze drift again, lazy, disinterested, the picture of someone enjoying the atmosphere instead of dissecting it.

That was when she noticed her. Not because she stood out loudly—but because she didn’t blend the way everyone else did. NØVA, though Zara didn’t know her identity…yet.

There was a weight to her presence. Something contained. Controlled. The kind of stillness that didn’t come from comfort, but from choice. Zara’s eyes lingered a fraction longer than they should have, curiosity threading quietly beneath her otherwise measured calm.

Interesting. Dangerous, probably. Alema’s kind of company. And if played right perhaps also part of the way to get the data vault.

Zara took a slow sip from her glass this time, more out of habit than thirst, letting the burn settle as she shifted her weight slightly. Not toward NØVA—never that obvious—but just enough to close the conversational distance if she chose to.

Her attention flicked once more to Vek. Still nervous. Still touching the vault. Still waiting to be robbed. Perfect.

Her gaze returned to NØVA, a hint of amusement now threading through the violet in her eyes, something sharper beneath it—an unspoken invitation to something just on the edge of trouble.

“Please tell me,” she said at last, voice low, smooth, and entirely too composed for the chaos around them, “you’re watching them because you’re planning something interesting…”

A beat. Just enough to let the implication breathe. “…and not because the drinks here are that tragic.” Her eyes drifted—briefly, deliberately—toward the Rodian’s table. Then back again. The corner of her mouth lifted. Just a little. Enough to suggest that whatever was about to happen…

…wasn’t going to be boring.

Alema Nyx

• Location: The Static Veil cantina, Nar Shaddaa
• Objective: Steal a data cylinder
• Outfit: Nar Shaddaa club outfit
• Company: Nøva

 

[Nøva]

TAG: Zara Voss


The first inhale hit Nova like a verdict.

Not relief. Not comfort.

Just silence being forced into the noise.

The stick between her fingers burned low and mean, ember pulsing as she drew again—slow this time, controlled. Whatever she was smoking didn't belong in polite systems. It didn't belong in any system that valued staying conscious and emotionally stable. That was the point.

Pain in her shoulder dulled from "sharp and personal" to "distant and negotiable." The ache in her ribs stopped trying to introduce itself every time she breathed. Her body didn't feel better—just quieter. Manageable.

Good enough.

Nova leaned back against the bar, one boot planted, the other angled just slightly outward. Casual posture. Built posture. The kind of stillness that came from knowing exactly how fast she could move if the room decided to stop being friendly.

Her jacket hung loose off one shoulder, shrugged open from the weight of the night and whatever had come before it. Beneath it, a fitted tank top clung to her frame, fabric catching the neon bleed of the room—cyan, magenta, violet sliding across inked skin like the city itself was trying to claim her and failing. Tattoos traced sharp, deliberate lines along her collarbone and arms, vanishing beneath fabric only to reappear where light dared to touch.

She didn't look out of place here.

She looked like something the place had learned to orbit around.

The Static Veil throbbed around her.

Music like impact tremors. Voices smeared into laughter and deals and lies. Somewhere deeper in the room, glass shattered—no one turned. No one cared.

Nova did.

Of course she did.

Rodian. Booth. Nikto cluster. Vault still clutched like it was a heartbeat he could hide behind.

Same pattern. Same fear dressed up as caution. Same mistake of thinking stillness meant safety.

Her gaze lingered just long enough to confirm what she already knew, then drifted away again—like she'd lost interest.

Except she hadn't.

Then—

Voice.

Close enough to matter. Smooth enough to stand out without trying to.

Nova didn't react outwardly. But her attention shifted. Not fast. Not obvious.

Just… locked.

Her eyes tracked her the way she always did when something didn't fit the room. Not just visually—structurally. Posture, timing, presence. The way she held space without asking permission from it. The way she didn't lean into the bar like she belonged to it, but like she was choosing it for now.

Nova exhaled smoke slowly through her nose.

Let it hang.

Let it blur the edges between them.

Only then did she speak, voice roughened by the drug and softened by control.

"Mm."

Acknowledgment.

Nothing more.

Her gaze flicked briefly toward the Rodian again.

Then back.

"You picked a funny time to start conversation," Nova said dryly, almost amused. "This place serves three things. Bad alcohol, worse decisions…" a faint pause, smoke curling from her lips, "…and people who think they're invisible."

Her cybernetic fingers rolled the stick lightly. Ash fell in a clean, precise line.

Controlled. Always controlled.

Her eyes stayed on her now.

Longer.

Not aggressive.

Measuring.

There was something about her that didn't resolve cleanly. Too composed for random. Too steady for drunk. Too intentional for idle.

Which meant one of two things — an amateur pretending, or a professional relaxing.

Neither was safe.

Nova took another slow drag.

Her posture didn't change—but something in her did. A quiet tightening under the surface. A system waking up without announcing itself.

Then, softer—almost conversational.

"Baby Red…" she said at last, voice dipping just enough to make the word feel like it belonged in the smoke between them, "you've got that look."

A faint tilt of her head.

Like she was amused. Like she was interested. Like she was both and neither at once.

"Like you're either bored…"

A pause.

"…or already ten steps ahead of everybody in this room."

Smoke drifted lazily between them.

Nova's eyes flicked once—just once—over her again, slower this time, like she was letting herself acknowledge something without admitting it mattered.

Her mouth twitched- barely noticeable.

"Mm," she added, softer, almost to herself.

Then, like a thought she didn't bother stopping from slipping out:

"Momma likes trouble like that."

​

 

[Zara Voss]

“The Gilded Ghost”

Zara’s smile came slowly. Not surprised. Not embarrassed. Definitely not innocent. It unfolded at the corner of her mouth like she had just heard something she approved of far more than she intended to admit.

“Baby Red…Momma?” she echoed softly, amused warmth threading beneath the word as she rolled the glass lazily between slender fingers. Zara wondered if a claim was being placed on her. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I might start feeling safe here.”

The joke landed light, but her eyes remained attentive. Watching. Measuring right back. Most people in places like The Static Veil looked without seeing. Their attention slid across surfaces searching for weakness, profit, danger, attraction—usually in that order. NØVA, though? She observed like someone assembling a firing solution. Calm. Precise. Controlled in a way Zara recognized immediately because it mirrored parts of herself she rarely acknowledged aloud.

Professional. Interesting. Potentially very inconvenient.

Zara leaned one elbow against the bar, violet neon tracing itself across the exposed curves of her tattoos while the room pulsed around them. Somewhere deeper in the cantina another argument started rising toward violence, voices sharpening beneath the music. Nobody intervened. Nobody cared. The bartender kept pouring drinks without even looking up.

Nar Shaddaa etiquette.

Her gaze drifted briefly toward the Rodian again. Vek Talroth was sweating now. Subtle from a distance, but obvious once noticed. His fingers tapped nervously against the matte-black vault hanging at his hip while one of the Nikto guards barked laughter loud enough to turn heads. Too loud. Too distracted. One guard was arguing with a serving droid. Another had started flirting aggressively with someone near the sabacc tables.

Sloppy. The shape of opportunity was beginning to emerge. Zara could almost feel it settling into place.

“Bored is expensive,” she murmured at last, attention returning fully to NØVA. “Usually means I stayed somewhere too long.” Her eyes swept over the other woman more openly this time, appreciating rather than hiding it. The cybernetic hand. The loose jacket slipping from one shoulder. The smoke curling through neon around sharp lines and still sharper posture. NØVA looked like someone who had survived enough to stop pretending survival was noble.

Zara respected that. Maybe more than she should have. “You, though…” Her head tilted slightly. “You don’t strike me as invisible either.”

A faint pause. “You strike me as the reason someone checks over their shoulder halfway home and suddenly realizes they’re missing a weapon.”

The compliment sat somewhere between flirtation and assessment. Deliberately. Zara lifted her glass for another sip, eyes never quite leaving NØVA’s face even as movement near the Rodian pulled at the edges of her awareness. One of the Nikto shifted away from the booth toward the refresher corridor. Another leaned too deep into conversation. Vek himself looked distracted by the rising noise near the sabacc pit.

Three seconds. Maybe four now. The corner of Zara’s mouth twitched upward again.

“You ever notice,” she said conversationally, “how the people clutching something valuable always think everyone around them is too drunk, too desperate, or too distracted to take it?”

Her voice remained low. Smooth. Intimate against the roar of the cantina. “But the funny thing about predators…”

A glance toward Vek. Then back to NØVA. “…is they usually recognize each other first.” Zara and NØVA weren’t the same sort of predator, but they were both hunting something. Zara knew enough to know if things came to violence she would lose out, even if the more hardened look of “Aluma Nyx” suggested she might be able to put up a fight. Zara would need to make nice with NØVA at the moment, then pounce on her true target when the time was right.

Alema Nyx

• Location: The Static Veil cantina, Nar Shaddaa
• Objective: Steal a data cylinder
• Outfit: Nar Shaddaa club outfit
• Company: Nøva

 

[Nøva]

TAG: Zara Voss



Nova's smile finally showed teeth at that.

Small.
Crooked at one corner.

Dangerous in the way real amusement usually was on Nar Shaddaa.

"Careful, baby," she murmured, voice low beneath the bassline shaking through the cantina walls. "Keep sweet talking me like that and Momma's gonna think you flirt for a living."

The deathstick ember pulsed bright between cybernetic fingers as she inhaled again, slow and steady. The burn settled warmly behind her eyes now, taking the worst of the ache with it. Her shoulder still screamed underneath the numbness. Her ribs still hated her. But the noise had gone distant enough to ignore.

For the moment.

Nova let the smoke leave her slowly, head tipping back just enough for neon to catch along the sharp geometry of ink climbing her throat.

Then, almost absently, she shrugged the jacket fully from her shoulder.

Dark synthleather slipped down her arm and pooled beside her against the stool, exposing more of the loose black tank hanging from her frame. The fabric dipped low enough to reveal the upper swell of her chest and the sprawling blackwork ink etched across the skin above her heart—a horned demon worked in sharp cyber-rune lines, fractured by faint silvered scar tissue that disappeared beneath the collar of the shirt.

More tattoos traced outward from it.

Geometric patterns. Glyphwork. Thin lines disappearing beneath fabric and reemerging along toned shoulders and collarbone like circuitry carved directly into skin. Under the neon haze of The Static Veil, the ink almost looked alive—violet and cyan sliding across the contours of muscle and chrome alike.

Beautiful.
But not soft.

Nothing about Nova's body suggested softness.

Not the faint marks left behind by old fights. Not the reinforced cybernetic fingers curled loosely around the deathstick. Not the way she carried herself like every exposed inch was a decision instead of vulnerability.

And the whole time?

Nova watched Red notice.

That was the interesting part.

She fething loved it. Not strangers staring from dark booths. Not drunk idiots near the sabacc pit.

Her.

Her eyes scanned down the curve of her back as if she were browsing a menu. The Twi’lek carried herself like expensive bait wrapped around a vibroblade. Elegant. Controlled. Too smart behind the eyes to ever really be harmless.

Nova respected that instinctively.

Which was exactly why part of her wanted to push at it.

Her gaze slid briefly toward Vek again.

Nikto splitting wider now.
One distracted near the sabacc pit.

Another halfway turned toward the fight breaking out deeper in the cantina.

And the Rodian?

Still clutching the vault every few seconds like prey checking whether its own throat was still attached.

Nova almost laughed.

"You know," she said softly, eyes still angled toward the booth, "the funny thing about people carrying something valuable…"

A beat.

"They start telling everyone exactly where that chit is."

Then she looked back at Red fully.

Held the eye contact this time.

No rush. No challenge. Just that same dangerous calm.

The bassline hit hard enough to vibrate the glasses behind the bar. Somewhere to their left, somebody got slammed into a table hard enough to earn applause.

Nova ignored it all.

"You are right though. . ." she admitted after a moment, her voice quieter now—closer somehow despite not moving. "Predators recognize each other..."

The corner of her mouth twitched upward again.

"Question is…" Her eyes drifted once again down Red's frame before returning upward, slow enough not to hide the appreciation in it. "Are you the kind that bites for survival…"

A faint pause.

"…or because you enjoy hearing people gasp after?"

​

 

[Zara Voss]

“The Gilded Ghost”

Zara’s breath caught—just slightly. It wasn’t visible to most. Wouldn’t have been. But the line landed closer than she liked, threading just a little too cleanly between truth and assumption. Flirt for a living. For half a heartbeat, her fingers stilled against the glass.

Then it was gone. Replaced with that same easy composure, that same slow, knowing smile that suggested she had never been anything but in control of the moment. If the thought lingered, it didn’t show—filed away, dismissed, repurposed into something useful.

“Mm,” she hummed softly, tilting her head just enough for the neon to catch along the smooth curve of her lekku. “Depends who’s asking… and what they’re worth.” Deflection. Clean. Practiced.

Her gaze didn’t break from NØVA’s—not when the jacket slipped, not when more ink was revealed, not when the cantina seemed to dim just a fraction around the other woman’s presence. But it did change. Zara noticed everything.

The ink wasn’t random. It never was with people like this. It followed structure—flowed with the body instead of sitting on top of it. Lines that knew exactly where muscle shifted, where tension lived, where the eye would naturally fall. The horned figure across her chest, fractured by scar tissue, wasn’t just decoration—it was history. Statement. Ownership of what had been survived.

Her eyes traced it, unhurried. Appraising. Not like a gawker. Like a collector evaluating something rare. “Careful,” Zara murmured, softer now, the edge of her voice warming into something more intimate without losing its bite. “You keep showing me pieces like that, I might start thinking you’re the one putting on a performance.”

A faint smirk tugged at her lips. “Not that I’d complain.”

For a moment—just a moment—her attention flicked back toward Vek. Still there. Still clutching. Still nervous. Still available. Zara exhaled quietly through her nose. He wasn’t going anywhere. Opportunity didn’t always need to be seized immediately. Sometimes it was better when it ripened—when distractions layered themselves thick enough to make the take effortless. And right now?

There was something far more interesting unfolding at the bar.

Her body shifted subtly, not closing distance but committing to the conversation in a way that made it clear her priorities had… adjusted. Fully. Her glass touched down against the bar with a soft click.

“Enjoyment,” she echoed, picking up NØVA’s question at last, violet eyes holding hers with a steady, deliberate focus. “Survival’s a baseline. Anyone still breathing in a place like this has already figured that part out.”

A beat. Then, quieter— “But I don’t do anything halfway.” The words lingered just long enough to mean more than they said. Zara’s gaze dipped again, slower this time, letting herself openly take in the rest of NØVA’s ink where it disappeared beneath fabric and reemerged along shoulder and collarbone. The way it moved with her. The way it fit.

“Besides…” she added, voice threading back toward that playful edge, “art like that deserves to be appreciated properly.”

Her eyes lifted again, locking back in. A flicker of something sharper behind them now. Curiosity. Interest. Maybe a hint of challenge.

“Alema,” she offered then, almost offhand—but not accidental. “Alema Nyx.” Even though it was a fairly common sounding Twi’lek name, some in the bar would certainly associate it with a rumored underground fight club.

A small pause. “Since ‘Baby Red’ sounds like something you’d say right before making someone regret their life choices.” The corner of her mouth curved again, just enough to show she wasn’t entirely joking. “Which,” she added lightly, “I’m still deciding if that’s a promise or a warning.”

Alema Nyx

• Location: The Static Veil cantina, Nar Shaddaa
• Objective: Steal a data cylinder
• Outfit: Nar Shaddaa club outfit
• Company: Nøva

 

[Nøva]

TAG: Zara Voss



Nova's eyes stayed on her when she said the name.

Alema Nyx.

The kind of name that sounded expensive, dangerous, or entirely fake.

Usually all three.

The corner of Nova's mouth pulled upward slowly around the deathstick, amusement settling into something warmer now—something with actual interest behind it instead of idle entertainment.

"Alema," she repeated, tasting the name like she was deciding whether she liked the burn of it.

She did.

Obviously.

"Pretty name, baby."

The compliment came easy. Too easy. But Nova didn't sound careless with it. Her voice had dropped lower somewhere along the way, smoothed by smoke and the steady pulse of bass vibrating through the cantina floor beneath them.

And she was still watching her. Always watching her.

The little catch in Alema's breathing earlier hadn't escaped notice. Neither had the way her eyes moved over the ink—not like someone admiring a body, but like someone reading a story written in scars and blackwork.

That part interested Nova more than it should have.

Most people saw tattoos and thought danger. Alema looked at them like she was trying to understand authorship.

That was different.
Dangerously different.

Nova rolled the deathstick once between metallic fingers before setting it down briefly against the ashtray. Then she leaned forward just enough to rest her forearms against the bar, posture loose, tank dipping with the movement while neon slid over ink and chrome in shifting color.

"You know," she murmured, gaze never leaving Alema's, "most people look at me and see a warning."

A faint tilt of her head.

"You looked at me like you were appreciating the brushwork."

The smile she gave then was smaller.

Realer.

And somehow more dangerous because of it.

Around them, The Static Veil continued tearing itself apart in slow motion. Another burst of shouting near the sabacc tables. Someone laughing too loud. Credits changing hands. A serving droid stumbling through a fight it pretended not to notice.

Vek Talroth shifted again in his booth.

Still nervous.
Still exposed.

Nova clocked it automatically before her attention drifted back to Alema like gravity pulling something into orbit.

The Twi'lek had shifted toward her without fully realizing it.

Or maybe she had realized it.

That possibility made Nova's pulse kick pleasantly once beneath the demon ink over her heart.

"Performance, though?" Nova echoed softly.

A quiet laugh slipped from her.

"Baby, if I was performing…" Her cybernetic fingers tapped once against the bar between them. "You wouldn't still be thinking clearly enough to ask questions."

There it was again.

That push.

That deliberate heat beneath the teasing. Not overwhelming. Never desperate. Confident.

Nova knew exactly what she looked like under this lighting. Knew exactly what the ink, the scars, the lazy posture, the low voice did to women who liked danger more than they admitted. And Alema? Alema looked like she liked danger professionally.

Feth, Momma loved that.

Then came the warning-or-promise line.

Nova's eyes half-lidded slightly.

Slow.
Interested.

"Mmm." She leaned back again, fingers reclaiming the deathstick before taking another drag. Smoke curled from her mouth as she considered the question like it actually deserved thought.

"Depends," she said at last.

Her gaze slid once down Alema's frame—elegant posture, tattoos, those sharp violet eyes—before climbing back up.

"Are you planning on behaving, Red?"

A beat.

Then, with a crooked grin that looked far too pleased with itself:

"Because if not…" another inhale, ember glowing bright, "…Momma makes a terrible warning label."

The silence that followed wasn't empty.

It breathed.

Bass pulsed through the walls. Neon bled across chrome and skin alike. Somewhere behind them, someone cursed loudly as credits scattered across the sabacc tables.

Nova ignored all of it.

Her attention stayed exactly where she wanted it.

Then, slowly, she lifted the deathstick from her lips and offered it across the space between them.

Not careless.
Intentional.

"Careful with this, baby," she murmured, metallic fingers catching magenta light as the ember glowed between them. "Momma rolls her own."

The corner of her mouth twitched faintly.

"Most people take one pull and either start confessing crimes…" A pause, velvet-slow. "…or start seeing gods." Her eyes held Alema's steadily.

"You look like you could handle it, though."

The stick hovered between them, smoke curling lazy and intimate through the neon haze—an invitation dressed up as a dare.

Then—

"Nøva."

The name came low and smooth, like she was letting it slip out against her better judgment. Not loud enough for the room.

Just for her.

The corner of her mouth curved faintly around the next inhale.

"That's what you can me Red."

Another slow exhale drifted between them, warm with spice and smoke.

Nova tilted her head slightly then, studying Alema through half-lidded eyes—not just the beauty, not just the flirtation, but the precision underneath it all. The way she measured rooms. Timed silences. Chose every movement instead of wasting them.

Danger wrapped in silk and confidence.

God, she was gorgeous.

"Besides…" Nova said softer now, voice smoothing out like dark liquor poured neat, "you still haven't told me what a woman like you is really doing in a place like this."

​

 

[Zara Voss]

“The Gilded Ghost”

Zara’s smile didn’t fade when NØVA repeated the name. If anything, it deepened—just slightly, just enough to acknowledge the weight behind the way it had been said. Tasted, almost. She’d worn enough names to recognize when one landed well. “Pretty,” she echoed softly, a quiet hum of agreement as her gaze held steady. “I’ll keep it, then.”

But her attention sharpened as NØVA continued. That observation—the way she looked—earned something more genuine than the practiced ease Zara usually carried. A soft, low chuckle slipped from her, unhurried, unoffended, and touched with something like quiet amusement.

“Mm… I suppose that’s the difference, isn’t it?” she murmured, shifting just enough that her shoulder angled more fully toward NØVA, committing to the moment rather than pretending she hadn’t already. “When one’s style leads to the assumption of danger… you can run away…”

Her eyes flicked, briefly, meaningfully, to the chaos of the cantina. Then back. “…or you can dive deeper.” A faint pause. The corner of her mouth curved. “I always choose to dive deeper.” There was no bravado in it. No need. Just fact.

Her gaze lingered a moment longer—on the ink, the scars, the deliberate exposure of something most people either hid or weaponized too loudly. NØVA didn’t display danger. She contained it. Zara liked that. Probably more than she should.

At the mention of performance, Zara let out a soft, breathy giggle—light, almost delicate, the kind that could be mistaken for timidness if someone wasn’t paying attention. “Oh?” she said, lashes lowering just slightly as if considering that very seriously. “Then I very much hope I get to see that performance someday.” The innocence was a lie. A good one. Her eyes gave it away.

When the question came—are you planning on behaving—Zara’s smirk returned, sharper now, more honest in its mischief. “For Nar Shaddaa?” she tilted her head, considering as if it were a real dilemma. “I’ll probably behave.” Zara wasn’t sure what even constituted behaving on Nar Shaddaa.

A beat. Then, quieter—just for her—“By Republic standards, I never do.” Another small pause as Zara leaned in closer, ”Though given the right incentive I’ll behave however you want.”

The deathstick hovered between them. Zara’s gaze dropped to it, just for a moment. Not hesitation. Assessment. She wasn’t reckless with what she put into her body—not usually. Not without knowing the edge she was stepping onto. But that was the thing about edges. Sometimes you didn’t understand them until you leaned over.

Her eyes lifted back to NØVA’s. A flicker of something unspoken passed between them—acknowledgment, curiosity, invitation. Then Zara reached out. Slow. Deliberate. Her fingers brushed lightly against NØVA’s as she took the deathstick, the contact brief but intentional. The ember pulsed between them before she brought it to her lips, inhaling with controlled restraint rather than bravado.

The burn hit fast. Sharper than she expected. Not overwhelming—but present. It slid through her senses like a blade wrapped in velvet, dulling edges without removing them entirely. The room softened just slightly, neon bleeding a touch more vividly, the bass settling deeper into her bones. Zara exhaled slowly, smoke curling from parted lips as her composure held. Mostly.

Her smile returned—unchanged, but just a shade warmer now. “Mm…” she hummed, passing the deathstick back with equal care. “You weren’t lying.” Her eyes lingered on NØVA as she reclaimed it.

“Fitting name,” Zara added, voice low, threaded with that same easy flirtation. “NØVA.” A faint tilt of her head. Then, softer—“But I don’t know…”

A playful glint sparked in her eyes. “Wouldn’t you rather I call you Momma?” She gave a small, deliberate wink. Not teasing. Not entirely. Just enough to blur the line.

The question about why she was there settled between them, and Zara let it breathe for a moment, her gaze drifting—not to the Rodian this time—but just past NØVA, as if considering how much truth the room deserved. Not much. Never much.

Her attention returned fully, that same amused curve tugging at her lips. “You probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said lightly, voice slipping back into that smooth, effortless cadence. “And where’s the fun in spoiling a good mystery too early?” A pause. Then—“For now…” her eyes held NØVA’s, steady, interested, unmistakably engaged, “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Another faint smile. “Finding a good time.”

Alema Nyx

• Location: The Static Veil cantina, Nar Shaddaa
• Objective: Steal a data cylinder
• Outfit: Nar Shaddaa club outfit
• Company: Nøva