The rhythmic clink-clink of spurs echoes against the floorboards before he finally steps out of the shadows. His T-shaped visor reflects the dim light, unmoving and unreadable. He doesn't draw his blaster—he doesn't need to yet. His hand simply rests near his belt, hovering over the whistling birds.

​"I’ve been tracking your fob from the Mid Rim," he says, his voice muffled and metallic behind the beskar. "You’ve made this a very expensive trip. Now, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. I'm fine with either."