There are places away from the neon lights of Shaddaa, places lost to the safety of the crowded masses. Alleyways at night and the sound of a false wind. Skeletons stripped clean, become bone. Magpies and hyenas in Nar Shaddaa, scavengers with blood between their teeth. Blood in their eyes.
In the darkness, a shiver. A sound.
A figure emerges from an alley, hood dragged sharp over their face. Gloved hands and the gleam of fur in the moon. The moon vanishes. The figure disappears. Footsteps without sound.
The entrance is nondescript. The locks broken. Door torn down. Long abandoned now. Only rats. Only the dust. This entrance that the stranger slips by. A glint of light, fingers settled on a blaster pistol. Two. Inside metal carcasses stripped clean. Some, taken. Metal flooring peeled away, sold for scrap.
But they are not here for that.
A gloved hand reaching out, settling against the wall as they walk. Decisive, slow. And then, as they pass the far corner, the sliver of a cool breeze in the wall, invisible and slow. Stirring the dust in a trail not a millimetre long. They press down.
Silence, for a moment. Then a click. Then a hiss. A shudder and a groan, slick hinges sliding open. The figure slips inside. The entrance latches shut behind them.
Secret for a secret, and Nar Shaddaa will never tell.
In the darkness of the room they find themselves in, there's a hum of sound. Power. Green light in flickers as they wait, brightening to a cold glow. And the cathar drags a hand through his hair, his hood falling away. There's a laugh in his mouth, at the back of his throat, that same spark of wildness that brought him here again. "I'm back."