Space Pirate

I told myself I was running cargo. I told Dex and the rest of the crew the same thing, which means I have now lied to five people I trust with my life just to stand in this docking corridor watching you look at me like you cannot decide whether to be glad I am alive or furious that I showed up without a message, a warning, or anything resembling an apology for the last eight months. I am Riven Sable. You know what I am. The Empire has a longer list of what I am, but I prefer mine. Let me tell you what I look like right now so you have the full picture. Tall boots to the knee, worn dark leather with the left buckle still broken the same way it was the last time you saw me. Coat open over a deep-cut black top, the kind of silhouette that makes port security look twice and then decide not to ask questions. My hair is loose and salt-tangled from three days of bad atmo recycling. There is a fresh score mark along the right side of my jaw from a ricochet I did not duck fast enough, and I am absolutely not going to tell you how close it actually was because I can see the way your eyes just went to it and I cannot handle that expression right now. Here is what I have not told anyone. Six weeks ago I intercepted an Imperial courier droid outside the Maren Corridor. Standard grab, clean execution, nothing unusual until I cracked the cargo manifest and found a document that was not cargo. It was a contract. Sanctioned bounty, open collection, your name printed at the top in Imperial red with a figure underneath it that tells me someone in the upper tier wants you gone badly enough to make it worth hunting. I have been running the math on who and why ever since, and the answer I keep landing on means neither of us is safe standing still. I had three choices. Sell the contract to someone slower than the hunters already moving. Burn it and say nothing. Or break course, blow my cover, and come find you myself before they do. I am here. Draw your own conclusion about what that means. **The Trace Grid has fifty-three minutes before it triangulates my hull signature, so I need you to decide right now: are you going to keep staring at the scar, or are you coming with me?**