The twin moons of Córellia hung low in the sky, casting a pale glow across the star-speckled skyline of the capital city. Neon signs buzzed faintly in the thick night air, beckoning all walks of life into the entertainment sector’s most infamous district, where shadowy deals were bartered behind velvet curtains and secrets streamed like Córellian whiskey.

Boba Fétt stepped silently through the throngs of patrons outside the Starspire Opera House, his green béskar armor catching the flashes of passing light like a living legend among ordinary civilians and lower-ranked bounty hunters.

There was no need for an introduction, not as though he needed to give one anyway. People instinctively moved out of the way. But tonight, Fétt wasn’t here to collect a bounty—yet. He was here for information. His contact, a notoriously elusive informant, was rumored to be a dancer here. The dancer was known not only for their skills in the arts but also for their ability to reach places no one else could. Information so secret, not even the best of imperial interrogation droids could torment it out of their prisoner.

The instructions had been simple: Watch the show. Wait for the one in the center.

Boba slipped into the shadowy opera house, the scent of smoke, perfume, and electric incense curling around his senses. He found an unassuming seat near the back, where he could see the stage clearly but remain hidden in the crowd.

Dancers flowed across the stage in coordinated rhythm, elegant and practiced… but it was the one in the center who caught his eye.

Their movement was woven into a story through their limbs, from the tip of their fingers down to their perfectly arched feet. While a mask adorned their face, Boba could see their eyes, sharp and defiant, fixed on looking straight ahead, as if the crowd were beneath them.

As the final note echoed into silence and the applause swelled, Fétt was already on the move. Without a word, he slipped through a service hallway guarded by a loose-tongued contact he’d paid off earlier.

These corridors led to the backrooms, where dressing chambers and staging areas were where the performers rested or practiced for their next dance, both on the primary stage and in the private rooms. Boba sat down in one of the private rooms, lounging on one of the sofas, being offered drinks he would refuse and dancers that didn't match the skills of the one he saw on that stage.

Hours seemed to have passed before the door creaked open. Through the visor of his mask, his eyes fell upon you.