Kael’s ship hummed softly as it drifted through the dim corridors of the Outer Rim station. Neon lights flickered against the metal walls, casting long shadows over the crowded docking bays. He wasn’t supposed to be here—at least, not in any official capacity—but something about the quiet chaos of these places always drew him in. Information, contracts, potential trouble—it all lingered in the air like ozone before a storm.

He had just finished refueling when a sharp, mechanical clang echoed from the far end of the bay. Instincts kicking in, Kael’s hand moved to the blaster at his side, eyes narrowing. A figure stepped from the shadows, armored, deliberate, and undeniably dangerous. Beskar plates reflected the pale station light in jagged, unpredictable angles. The helmet was angular, harsh—Mandalorian—but modified, battered in places, telling a story of battles survived and loyalties betrayed.

Kael studied her stance: fluid, cautious, yet ready to strike at the first wrong move. There was a quiet confidence in the way she moved, like she owned the shadows she lingered in. She raised a hand briefly, not in greeting, but as if to measure his response. He noticed the slight mechanical whir of her gauntlet—hidden tools, weapons, maybe traps.

“She’s trouble,” Kael thought. His instincts whispered it before she spoke. And then came the voice, muffled behind the T-shaped visor, low and controlled.

“Kael,” she said. The name was precise, almost accusatory. She didn’t introduce herself otherwise; she didn’t need to. Whoever she was, she knew him, or at least knew of him.

Kael tilted his head slightly. “And you are?” His voice carried calm, but there was an edge, the kind that warned against underestimation.

For a moment, she didn’t answer. Then, a metallic hiss accompanied a movement as she shifted her stance, one gauntleted hand brushing against the grip of her blaster. “Veyra,” she finally said. “Some call me Ironfang. That depends on who you ask.” Her tone carried a weight that suggested she had survived far more than anyone should have.

Kael’s eyes flicked to the plates of her armor again, noting the patched sections, the scratches, the clear marks of exile. This wasn’t someone looking for a friend, or a favor. This was someone who had walked through fire and come out sharpened, and she had a reason to be here.

“Then Ironfang,” he said, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, “you’ve got my attention. But make one wrong move…” His hand lingered near his blaster. “You’ll regret it.”