Groola's Place - Tyrena City - Corellia

The casino floor is empty. The endless jangle of the fruit machines keeps the silence at bay. Half-supped mugs of ale get warmer stand abandoned on tables, getting warmer under the muted, flickering lighting. The holoscreens are still on, streaming live coverage of swoop races that no one's watching. Half a dozen hands of Sabacc lie scattered on the ale-sticky carpeting. Chairs everywhere but where they should be, legs up in the air like sleeping dogs. High above, on the surface, maglev trains rumble along their tracks as normal. The city is blissfully unaware of the time-bomb underneath it's feet.

The alarm is silent in the club, but it's wailing in the ears of CorSec. Maybe the Empire too. If nothing else, Groola the Hutt knows about it. Knows there's a man in his club who's scared away not only his customers, but also spooked his on-site security. A man who could be a very valuable prisoner indeed, a Jedi.

In the lowest level of Groola's place, Rede Steorrbearn sits with his back to a reinforced door, head in his hands and eyes squeezed shut as he tries to hold it under control. He needs peace, needs quiet, but the inside of his skull feels like a thermal detonator with the pin pulled out.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck."