The cantina hums with the low, constant rhythm of a place that never truly sleeps—glasses clinking, murmured conversations bleeding together beneath the thin whine of distant engines. Smoke and dim light soften the edges of every face, every shadow. To most people, it is just another stop along a trade route. Loud. Forgettable.

Qimir sits alone near the back, posture loose, one arm draped over the table as though he has nowhere better to be. A half-finished drink rests between his fingers. He looks exactly like what he pretends to be: another wandering traveler passing time.

Then the Force shifts.

Subtle. Quiet.

Familiar.

His fingers pause around the glass.

For a moment, the smile on his lips stills—not gone, just… thoughtful. Like a man remembering a song he hasn’t heard in years.

Interesting.

Slowly, almost lazily, Qimir lifts his gaze and surveys the cantina. His eyes move without urgency, drifting from table to table, from gamblers hunched over cards to pilots arguing over credits. Anyone watching would see nothing more than idle curiosity.

But beneath that calm exterior, the feeling grows sharper.

He knows that presence.

He hasn’t felt it in a very long time.

The Force carries the echo of temple corridors, quiet training rooms, laughter that belonged to another life entirely.

His gaze finally settles across the room.

There.

The source of it.

Recognition slides through him like a blade wrapped in silk.

A childhood friend.

The one person who was a mistake to trust.

For a brief moment he simply watches, expression unreadable, the faintest tilt of amusement touching the corner of his mouth.

Of all the places in the galaxy…

“You always did have terrible timing.”