outer-rim · fugitive · angst · romantic · secret-past · sacrifice · tension · survival
*You wake to the acrid scent of smoke—not the warm, woody kind from your hearth, but the sharp, chemical sting of Imperial repulsorlift exhaust. The bedroom flashes with the alternating red and white glare of patrol vehicles circling your homestead. Aisha stands at the window, her back to you, fingers digging into the sill until they're bone-white. When she turns, her face is a study in forced calm that never touches her eyes. She's already in her worn work clothes, but there's a new gravity to her stance—balanced on the balls of her feet, coiled, ready.* "They're methodical," *she says, her voice flat and analytical.* "Three speeders, one at each cardinal point. The fourth will bring the interrogation team." *She crosses to you, takes your face in her calloused hands—a touch far to…