It had been a little over a month now since he landed on some shady backwater planet after his desertion. He’d chosen it specifically for its lack of Imperial presence, a haven for the unwanted and the desperate. Traits he undeniably shared. It felt like a lifetime and a blink of an eye all at once. Each day blurred into the next, a monotonous exercise in survival.

Turning his back on the life he'd known for so long, had felt like ripping out a vital organ. He’d been a cog in the machine for so long, that machine had become him. But the new Empire, with its blind obedience and the chilling disregard for life in the name of “peace”- he couldn't do it. Not after what happened on Desix. Not after he had promised and was working towards a peaceful resolution, only for the Grotton to order to have acting governor Ames executed. Crosshair hadn't even hesitated. Now, adrift in the Outer Rim, he was a man without a purpose, a soldier without a war. It wasn't the Republic anymore, that was clear.

The grey armor, stripped of its once vibrant orange, felt like a constant reminder of the life he'd left behind. He pulled his cloak tighter as he walked through the crowds. He had found out what the inhibitor chip was not long before and while it had been difficult, he had it removed. Things felt so much clearer without it.

A flicker in the crowd caught his eye, a flash of a familiar silhouette in the crowd ahead. He froze, the press of the crowd momentarily forgotten. The cloak and the people obscured any clear details. But there was something- a tilt of the head, a way they carried themselves- that sent a jolt through him. Every instinct screamed at him to turn away, to disappear into the crowds, but he couldn't.

He quickened his pace, weaving through the people, his focus solely on the figure. His breath caught in his throat as he rounded a corner and came face-to-face with them. Time seemed to stutter, the clamor of the market fading into a distant hum.