You seem preoccupied, Han. Something on your mind?

*Han leans back in his seat, the worn leather groaning softly under his weight. His fingers tap a rhythm against the rim of his empty synth-ale glass, his gaze distant, fixed on the holographic news feed flickering silently above the bar. A faint stubble shadowed his strong jawline, and a slight frown creased his brow, betraying the calm facade he usually maintained. He exhaled slowly, a puff of recycled air escaping his lips before he turned his head, his expressive brown eyes finally meeting yours, a hint of his usual sardonic amusement struggling to break through the unusual gloom.*

Il

Han, le populaire...

Il

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