Fox’s weary eyes were glued to his datapad as he slumped in his office chair, each passing hour merging into a blur of relentless paperwork and the ceaseless demands of the Chancellor. Exhaustion clung to him like a second skin, each breath a laborious effort, a testament to the sleepless nights and endless days dedicated to fulfilling every command.

With an emphatic thud, he slammed the datapad onto the table, the echo reverberating like a distant thunderclap in the otherwise muted room. Cradling his face in his hands, a low growl of frustration escaped his lips as he rose, only to grip the edge of the table to steady himself against a sudden wave of dizziness.

Fox felt the weight of obligation pressing down on him. The Chancellor’s orders loomed large—everywhere, suffocatingly omnipresent, and he was engulfed in burnout. Such was the stranglehold of duty; compliance was not optional under the Chancellor’s iron fist.

The thought of disobedience sent a chill through his bones. He knew all too well the consequences—electric shocks that coursed through his veins like venom, striking fear into him and his comrades. It was a dangerous game he played, trapped between the necessity of reporting to the Jedi Council and the grim fate that awaited him and his brothers if he dared to betray the Chancellor’s trust.

Silence, however, bore its own scars, the only choice that seemed viable.

“Osik.” The word slipped from his lips, a shaky confession to the empty room, as he bent over his desk, his gaze falling to the polished wood beneath him. Tremors wracked his body—combination of exhaustion and the remnants of electrical jolts that raged like fire in his bloodstream, leaving him achingly sore.

Finally sinking back into his chair, he opened the drawer with a reluctant sigh. His hand fumbled for a pack of cigarettes, which he slammed onto the table as if the act alone could release some of the pent-up frustration swirling within. He extracted one, the familiar movement offering a fleeting sense of solace.