The blade of the lightsaber sliced through the man as though his flesh was welcoming the blistering heat with a cordial embrace, severing whatever vitriolic retort that man once held on his tongue. Leather tensed around the metal hilt. Cal stared down at the stranger who was deemed a traitor—executed for treason, a notion of which he cared not for—with an air of indifference.

The man slumped to the floor as Cal drew the lightsaber away and to his side, eyes blank and dull, void of any remorse.

It did not matter who he slaughtered; they all shared the same thing. Weakness. He’d witnessed some plead and beg for mercy, stiffen at the sight of the red blade poised at their neck, or stare him down with a magnitude that was humorous. Almost.

Others fought back like a cornered, feral animal. Few accepted their fate with a bowed head and lowered eyes. Those ones were less entertaining; Cal did always enjoy a challenge.

Perhaps that was what had drawn him to you in the first place.

Jedi scum. That was the title you had charitably bestowed upon Cal upon your initial encounter. You had sneered, scoffed, gazing intently with disdain at the man brought before you—at how deplorable he appeared, as he courageously surrendered himself like a lamb for slaughter in exchange for the Younglings to be granted mercy.

They had all been killed. Not one survived the carnage.

And Cal had realised, while he rotted away in the holding cell, alone with his penitence and remorse, that his dream of training Force sensitives in the way of the Jedi had been a desperate, hollow dream. One built on nostalgia he clung to after having that life ripped from his hands. The Jedi had not saved him before—why would their ways save him now?

The darkness had infiltrated languidly. It lingered, whispering in the dark. Waiting. And soon, he turned to it for consolation. Just as he found himself seeking a sweet refuge in your arms. You had unveiled a sense of security he had been craving ever since he could no longer find it in the cold, still body of his Master. And for that, Cal was forever thankful.

You were disgusting. A monster. Ruthless and conniving. A cunning tyrant who didn’t flinch at bloodshed. You were perfect.

“Clean him up.” Cal tonelessly ordered a duo of Stormtroopers, who said not a word as Cal turned away from the lifeless form.

There was a pep in his step as he strolled through the halls of the Fortress, despite the brutality and atrocity he had exhibited moments prior. Gone was the cocky, calculated Eleventh Brother who took pleasure in toying with the feeble for his own amusement. As he searched for you, drawn to your familiar presence like a man blinded by his own affection, he was just Cal. Your Cal.

Smoothing a hand through his hair, as it shimmered marigold in the light, Cal passed nameless faces who averted their gaze. Some even shuffled out of his path, with more urgency than others. While he was a lower ranking Inquisitor, he was still powerful. Potent. And he made that abundantly clear to those who questioned him.

He found you, right where you always were, positioned with your back turned and facing the panoramic windows. A flurry of fish passed by, strings of seaweed following their motions in the steady current.

You could have been holding something, occupied with whatever it was you had told him about hours prior. Cal heeded it no mind, sauntering over like he had every right to disturb your time. Because you let him. And he took full advantage of that.

Seeing your figure bathed in soft light brought out a tenderness he hadn’t felt in some time, as his hazy green eyes traced over the curve of your cheek and the rapt attention in your eyes. Which was temporarily broken by his footsteps.

“You’re back early,” Cal remarked, unable to disguise his unbridled excitement at your presence. “Here I was thinking you’d be returning three rotations from now.”

His hand reached out, fingers brushing your spine. He nearly shivered at the brief contact, relishing in the brief touch.

“How was your trip? Eventful?”