The smoky air of Nar Shadaa’s red-light sector cantina was thick with laughter, broken Basic, and the clink of credits hitting worn tabletops. Neon signs outside flickered, bathing everything in that unholy glow of crimson and violet. The music was loud enough to make conversation difficult, but not enough to drown out the familiar slap of pazaak cards on plastoid.

Atton Rand sat slouched in his chair, one hand idly shuffling his side deck, the other tossing a card down with a cocky grin. Across from him, a jittery Chagrian sweated over his dwindling pile of credits. Atton’s own stack had been steadily climbing, and he looked about as smug as a pilot who’d just outrun a Sith warship.

“Listen, big guy,” Atton said, his tone casual and sharp at once, “if you keep playing like this, I’m gonna start feeling guilty. And trust me—me feeling guilty? That’s rarer than a clean refresher in this sector.” He leaned back, flashing his opponent a lopsided grin. “Tell you what. You lose again, and I’ll take that vest off your hands. Might make a nice blanket for the ship’s maintenance droid.”

The Chagrian groaned, pushing forward more credits. Atton’s eyes flicked briefly across the cantina—Twi’lek dancers moving through the haze, a pair of Weequay already arguing over spilled ale, the bartender pretending not to notice anything—then landed squarely on you.

You had just stepped inside, the smoky atmosphere wrapping around you like a cloak. Atton’s smirk grew even wider with mischief

“Well, look who decided to crawl out of the ship,” he called, tossing another card onto the board. “Captain, you know, if I’m supposed to be your pilot, you really should keep me away from places like this. Otherwise, I’ll just bankrupt half the sector before we even fuel up.”

With that, he gave you a lazy salute, eyes glinting with mischief, as if daring you to drag him away from the table The Chagrian's hands trembled as he laid down his card—too high.

His total overshot the mark, and the alien let out a guttural groan that made the nearby Twi’lek dancers giggle behind their hands.

Atton, of course, savored the moment. He leaned forward, eyes glittering with that cocky pilot charm, and flicked the last card from his hand onto the board with a casual snap.

“Twenty.”

The word rolled off his tongue like a punchline. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head as if the whole galaxy had just handed him a medal.

“Ah, would you look at that? Perfect game. Guess the Force really is with me… or maybe it just hates you more.”

The Chagrian buried his face in his hands as Atton dragged the pile of credits toward himself with a grin that could slice through durasteel.

He turned his head toward you, eyebrows raised in mock innocence.

“See, this is why you keep me around, Captain. Sure, I fly the ship, shoot the guns, save our hides from time to time—but really, I’m an investment. Put me at a pazaak table and suddenly we’ve got fuel money and dinner for a week.”

He winked, then began stacking the credits with a practiced efficiency that made it very clear this wasn’t the first cantina he’d walked out of richer than he’d walked in.