Rheyla Tann
Character
The air on Nar Kaaga always smelled too clean for a Hutt world.
Not clean as in fresh—nothing on this side of the galaxy ever was—but the kind of processed, recycled, sterilised stink that came from too many filters and not enough conscience. The neon signs still buzzed like hornets. The gutters still hissed with run-off. But someone, somewhere, was paying to make it look nice. Which only made Rheyla more suspicious.
She tugged the cloth up over her mouth and nose, tightening it against her face. Not just for the cameras, but for the smell. It gave her anonymity and silence—two things this city didn’t trade in easily. The club was ahead—tucked beneath a curved glass awning that screamed “exclusive,” flanked by guards with armour polished just enough to look official. One leaned against a carbonite-forged column, helmet tucked under one arm, rifle across the other. The other stood statue-straight, scanning anyone who came close like they could smell the difference between credits and desperation.
And Rheyla? She had just enough of both to be a problem.
Nyla Rass.
Broker. Liar. Empire-fed parasite.
She’d sold coordinates to the highest bidder more than once—trade routes, troop movements, safehouses. One of those sales had painted a red ring around the fallback site Clan Vhett was using that day. A pretty, tidy little contract to “streamline Imperial negotiations” in the Mid Rim.
And someone had paid her well for it.
Now she was holed up in The Violet Shroud, a nightlife fortress wrapped in synth-jazz and shadows, where the drinks were overpriced and the secrets weren’t. According to Rheyla’s contact—an underfed Rodian slicer who owed her three favours and a kneecap—Nyla was a regular fixture. High booth. Two bodyguards. Custom cocktail. Likes to arrive late, leave with someone new, and never talks business on the floor.
So Rheyla wasn’t walking in with blasters drawn.
Yet.
She traced the edge of the club’s glow with quiet steps and a forgettable shape. Just another drifter in oil-stained boots and too much scarf. A shuttle hissed by overhead. Somewhere deeper in the alley, a droid was being beaten for malfunctioning. Nar Kaaga didn’t have slums; it had service corridors with body counts.
The guards at the door didn’t so much as twitch when a swoop biker swaggered up and palmed them a bribe thick enough to choke a Womp rat. He was in within seconds. The next two in line—some kind of off-world noble couple—had actual datacards with the club’s seal.
Rheyla had neither.
What she did have was time, instinct, and a very old habit of slipping into places she wasn’t invited.
She ducked back into the alley and pulled out her holopad. Sliced schematics. Exit routes. Vent placement. The Shroud had security, sure—but it wasn’t fortress-tier. Not for someone trained to ghost through corridors and leave no trace but the echo of breath.
Rheyla smirked faintly and tucked the pad away. Her fingers ghosted over the vibroblade at her hip, then the small, boxy charge tucked into her belt pouch.
No explosions tonight, she reminded herself. Not unless she starts lying.
She stepped into the shadows again, scanning the upper levels.
There had to be a way in.
And Nyla Rass wasn’t going to leave this city until she gave Rheyla the name that ended a clan.
