Prisoner treatment was never as dreamy as you thought it’d be. Cold, sterile, white. The New Republic payed no care to the comfort of their prisoners, it seems. That was fine with you. You knew you wouldn’t be there for long.

The good thing about “getting around” was you knew people. People who cared, even a little bit. You’d make do until your expected savior came around.

Which took longer than you would’ve liked; few hours in this damn prison cell before you finally heard some organic footsteps instead of the clunking of the patrol droids.

Finally, the whir of the lock being unraveled—and the door slid open, revealing the one and only Din Djarin.