Eivii
Fugitive and Hunter
Outfit: Dress
Location: Alderaan, Senatorial Residential Annex – Level C7
Time: Deep night, between security rotations
Status: Unarmed infiltration – no alarms triggered (yet)
There was no burst of drama at the breach point. No alarms. No shriek of suppressed plasma cutters or magnetic boots thudding onto durasteel.
Just silence.
Silent entry. Silent lift shaft bypass. Silent descent into a space she was never meant to reach.
Eivii exhaled once as the door to Nos’s quarters gave its last mechanical sigh and opened. She stepped through the threshold, and with it, past the point of no return.
This was Alderaan.
Senatorial quarters.
Within walking distance of Organa Hall.
Within reach of the Senate Guard if someone so much as whispered her name too loudly.
She shouldn’t be here.
She couldn’t be here.
But she was.
Her false credentials—aged, layered, and patched together from three separate slicers—had just barely gotten her this far. A forgotten comms technician from procurement. A routine override logged on a buried port schedule. A falsified clearance window that would self-delete in twenty minutes.
She had to move fast. But in this room time stalled for Eivii.
Nos’s quarters weren’t large. Or lavish. Or particularly well lit. But they were lived in now. It wasn’t the sterile bunker she remembered—the bare cot, the antiseptic corners, the locker with no decals, no scratches, no name.
Now there was a mug with old caf stains drying on the rim.
A jacket slung over the back of a chair—not folded. A coat rack by the door with a civilian blazer draped beside a service uniform.
The armor was new—massive and cobalt, built for war. It stood on its frame like a ghost waiting for orders. But around it? Signs of something warmer.
On the wall, a faded snapshot held by a magnet: Nos, standing beside her—Senator
Lady Sylvia Organa
— Candid, close. His eyes weren’t guarded in it. His hand was at her back. Their smiles were real.Elsewhere, a shelf held a small model of a starfighter. An old one. Probably one he never flew but kept anyway. There were datachips, a few marked as journals. Some holobooks. One bookmarked halfway.
He’s been healing.
He’s been living.
Eivii’s chest tightened. Her fingers hovered over the photograph. She didn’t touch it. She didn’t belong in the frame.
She padded deeper into the space, shedding her boots and gloves by the door. Not just for stealth. For effect. She moved quietly, intentionally, like someone trying not to haunt the space too much.
Her dress was understated. Not seductive—elegant. Uncharacteristically soft. She’d pulled her hair back. Her makeup was subtle. Not because it made her look good—because it made her look safe.
She was performing.
Not as a bounty hunter.
Not as a killer.
Not even as an ex.
Just a girl in a dress, waiting for someone who used to love her.
She sat on the edge of his bed, back straight, one hand in her lap, the other brushing absentmindedly against the sheets that carried the distant scent of comfort.
No weapons. No shields.
And yet, all of her defenses were up. Her eyes roamed the room once more—softer now. As if memorizing it. As if trying to carve a place for herself in it with nothing but silence. She practiced the words again in her mind.
“Hi.”
Nothing else.
Not “Do you remember...?”
Not “I didn’t know how to stay away.”
Not “You looked happy in the picture.”
Just—“Hi.”
That’s what soft people said. People with nothing to hide. People who didn’t climb up the side of Alliance buildings in the dead of night to sneak into someone else’s life. But she wanted to be that personm if only for five minutes. To see how it felt. to pretend. Just long enough to say it. Just enough to sit still long enough that he’d believe that she could.
So she waited.
In the dark room, In the quiet space she wasn’t allowed to belong.
She would let him find her soft. Let him find her still. Let him find her wrong. Passive. Everything she wasn't. And maybe... Maybe he wouldn’t make her leave this time.
