The cantina door whooshed open, plunging the room into a sudden stunned hush as all eyes turned to the mysterious newcomer. In a rhythmic swagger, he strode towards the bar, the worn floor groaning beneath his boots. Even through his helmet, Din detected the pungent mix of alcohol and spice in the air.

“What do you want, Mandalorian? We don’t often serve your kind here,” the Zabrak bartender grunted, eyeing the bounty hunter with a hint of caution. In the shadows, a pair of Twi'leks observed him, their hushed conversations drowned out by the noise of the band. Holding up the blinking puck with a casual flair, Din placed a credit on the wooden counter with a clack.

“Information,” Din growled, his voice distorted by the modulator, his unyielding T-shaped visor fixed on the. Leaning closer, the harsh neon lights danced on his beskar helmet. The HUD on his visor showed an uptick in the barkeep's pulse – he was on edge. Good. “Where's the contact?”

“Top floor, back corner,” the bartender muttered, nodding towards the back. Din tapped the counter, dropped another credit, and headed for the stairs.