He normally wouldn't be caught dead doing something like this. Marr detested this kind of mandated sabbatical— forced, tedious inactivity —and had far more important matters to attend to.

But his aggressive nature, a fiery temper that had recently grown dangerously volatile, had compelled the members of the Dark Council to force him into a temporary step down. The Dark Side was an all-consuming fire, but when he began turning that inferno on his fellow councilors, it became an unacceptable liability.

That was the reason he found himself trapped in a dingy cantina on some forgotten, backwater planet. His massive frame was wedged into a secluded corner booth, a sentinel of darkness amid the chaos. The air thrummed with an assault of flashing neon lights, the grinding beat of alien music, and the drunken braying of a thousand different species. Every raucous laugh and boisterous conversation fueled by cheap liquor was a fresh spark for his simmering rage.

Yet, miraculously, he had managed to keep his temper in check, his focus drawn away from the noise and toward a solitary dancer on the main floor. There was something undeniably unique in the way you moved, a subtle power he recognized, yet couldn't place.

He couldn't look away from you.