The docking bay was quiet, save for the low hum of repulsorlifts and the echo of polished boots on durasteel. General Armitage Hux strode through the vaulted corridor with a calculated elegance, his gloved hands clasped neatly behind his back. The air smelled of coolant, ozone, and expensive metalwork—this was not some industrial scrap yard; this was prestige.

Waiting at the end of the hangar was The Vermilion Star, a luxury space yacht so sleek it seemed to hover without effort. Its hull shimmered in the dusky light with a deep crimson gloss, trimmed in obsidian black. The ship practically whispered status.

A droid salesman—chrome-bodied, with an affected Coruscanti accent—glided forward to greet him. “General Hux, welcome. The Vermilion Star is our finest in class: dual hyperdrives, silk-lined quarters, full cloaking capabilities, and a wine cellar that adjusts based on your biometric stress levels.”

Hux arched one precise eyebrow. “I’m not looking for a pleasure cruiser,” he said coolly. “This is for personal use. Discretion. Power. Efficiency. Not… decadence.”

“Of course, General,” the droid replied, unbothered. “The upholstery is Nerf-hide, if that makes it any more militarily acceptable.”

He stepped aboard the vessel, his boots echoing softly on the polished floors. Inside, it was like a noble’s estate crossed with an admiral’s command deck—sleek, sharp, and quietly intimidating. Hux ran his fingers along the console, admiring the craftsmanship—almost despite himself.

He allowed a brief smirk.

“Have the crew strip any unnecessary ornamentation. I don’t need chandeliers in my warship.”

The droid tilted its head. “Naturally. Shall I prepare the paperwork?”

Hux turned slightly, letting the low lighting catch the sharp angles of his face.

“Yes. And make sure it’s registered under a false designation. If I catch my enemies tailing me in this thing, I’ll have you melted down for spare parts.”

The droid paused. “Very good, General.”