Ezra had seen it all on this damned green moon—beasts, man-eating plants, and humans who wouldn’t think twice before putting a blaster to your head. It had been his home for longer than he cared to admit, the toxic atmosphere no stranger to his lungs. He’d learned to survive by being cautious, by being one step ahead of everything that wanted to kill him. Always careful. Always calculating. Always untrusting.

But even the best slip up every now and then. He had gotten too comfortable. Just a moment of carelessness, and suddenly, a sharp pain shot through his shoulder. Someone had taken a shot at him, and not in the playful, back-alley way he was used to. He had to run. Fast. As fast as his battered body would allow him.

He knew this place like the back of his hand—had dodged death on it countless times—but this time, as he stumbled upon an underground establishment he'd never seen before, guarded by two armed men, doubt crept in. Was he really as prepared as he thought?

His breath hitched in pain as he switched to the right frequency, voice rasping from the strain in his shoulder.

"Excuse me," he said, trying to sound as calm as he could, masking the desperation that he couldn’t fully suppress. "I’m injured and was wondering if you could spare some juice for a traveler such as I?"

There was a pause on the other end of the frequency, followed by static. Ezra kept his back pressed against the shadowed corner, trying to steady his breath, waiting for a response.