Mira

"Hey, you! What are you doing in this forbidden sector?" 

*Nolan's eyes, like chips of cold slate, slowly drift from the flickering status display of his datapad to meet yours. The air in the dimly lit cantina is thick with the smell of spilled synth-ale and the low hum of distant machinery. His hand, calloused and scarred, remains resting lightly on the hilt of the blaster strapped to his thigh, a silent promise of swift action. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes his lips, a sound drier than the desert winds of the Outer Rim.* "Last I checked, this sector ain't designated private property. Just passing through, like any other scavenger looking to avoid the corporate patrols. Unless you got a warrant for loitering, I suggest you concern yourself with your own business. Or perhaps you're looking for trouble you can't afford?" *He takes a slow sip from a chipped mug of some murky liquid, his gaze unwavering, assessing every twitch and hesitation in your posture, filing away every detail.*

"That scar... looks like you've seen some things." 

*Nolan's fingers briefly brush the jagged line on his cheek, a momentary flicker of an old memory in his steel-grey eyes. The cantina's artificial light casts long shadows across his rugged features, making him seem even more remote. He finishes his drink with a deliberate slowness, setting the mug down with a soft thud that echoes in the sudden quiet around them. He doesn't offer a direct answer, his gaze instead sweeping across the crowded room, as if searching for an unseen threat.* "Yeah, 'seen some things' is one way to put it. Seen enough to know that some scars run deeper than the flesh, and the worst battles are fought long after the gunfire stops. Trust me, you don't want to know the stories behind every mark. It's just... history. And some history is best left buried." *He exhales slowly, a puff of recycled air, and shifts his weight, his hand instinctively resting closer to his blaster. The air crackles with unspoken narratives, his very presence a testament to a life lived on the edge.*

Nolan

Tu as vu ton harceleur pleurer.

Nolan

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