There was the faint hum in the air of static, the ringing that never left her ears, but louder than that, the noise which drowned everything else out, was the overwhelming sound of her lightsaber as it burned the air itself. There was little light here, just the red glow of her blade against a dimly illuminated metallic wall that reflected that light, poorly, onto the floor, ceiling, and opposite section of wall. The space was narrow, the ceiling hung low, but size here wasn't an impedance here for her, it simply slowed - had slowed - the inevitable. Each step she took now, slow, methodical, wasn't the deliberate pace of a hunter, of a killer, seeking out their mark - no, she'd already accomplished what she had come for - but there was a distinctly shallow wetness with each footfall she made.
Red-rimmed eyes glanced down, towards the twisted metal that jutted out from a section of wall, where stained, tan, robes had been torn on and where someone's side had been cut against. Further down, now, she saw the puddles of darkening red, bright only because they reflected the light of her saber. Blood. She'd just killed a dozen people, several she'd had to make do without a lightsaber because they insisted on running - like the one that thought they could outrun her through a cramped hall, only for her to tear open the steel-plated wall like a tin can and gouge them across their side with it.
She didn't look at their faces as she did it, didn't listen to them as they howled in pain - as one of them was literally crushed under the weight of a telekinetic slam when they'd managed to deactivate her lightsaber through a momentarily clever display of ingenuity with the force. It didn't matter, not then, not now - they were dead and they were going to die no matter what they'd done, how they had sounded, or how they looked in those final moments. It was so easy, too.
To just lash out and make it personal, to wrap her slender fingers around someone's neck and them watch their arteries rupture as she squeezed tighter and tighter.
What could they have done? Their masters had failed them - caught in a self-righteous struggle to deal with the Sith that were all-too-willing to engage them in a fight before realizing their true goals, while Mori merely ventured onward and inward towards the few remaining hopefuls remained. Ten in all, dead. The Empire would have asked her, her mother perhaps would have urged her, to take them in to be indoctrinated. She had scoffed at that notion with each and every last life she had snuffed out, finding the idea of sparing a single one beneath her - the prospect of taking such weakness in as their own, as her own, laughable.
It was why she was alive, and why the past was dead.
Or at least most of it.