Force Shadow

by RurouniNoKage

Both the Jedi and the Sith make one fundamental mistake – the Force is not purely dark or light. There is many shadows and shades of grey. Finding the balance between them while staying true to the greater good is the true challenge for a Jedi to face /Prequels AU/ thanks to SeverusSnapers and Yesac for inspiration / In progress / rated M for language and graphic content

30. Ch 30 A promise kept

Answers to reviews

Thank you to everyone who left a comment!

monkeywrench: You know me and my characters too well. Nari is quite persistent and just doesn't take no for an answer. She knows that between her and Kenshin, she's the clever one.

Author's note

Ok, I lied - or rather misjudged my structure. Chapter 29 wasn't the forelast chapter. This one is, and after this one, there's one more - which will then be the last.

Trigger warning:

This chapter contains depictions of PTSD, depression, and suicidal thoughts. While these themes are handled with care, they may be distressing to some readers. If you find these topics triggering, please proceed with caution or consider skipping this chapter. Mental health is complex, and no one struggles alone. If you or someone you know is in need of support, please reach out to someone you trust or seek professional help. You are not alone.

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-Ch. 30 -

A promise kept

~ A true master learns as much from the apprentice as the apprentice learns from the master ~

---

********************Oba Diah orbit, 6 years after Order 66 and the Coruscant inferno

The freighter emerged from hyperspace with a smooth lurch, its hull reflecting the amber hues of Oba Diah's distant sun. The ship—outwardly a non-descript foodstuffs trader—moved into the designated approach lane, its engines humming at a steady, unimposing frequency. Everything about it was designed to be forgettable, from its slightly dented hull to the registry tags marking it as a small-scale import vessel running goods between the Mid and Outer Rim.

As the ship descended toward the landing bay, its transponder emitted a standard clearance request, identifying it as The Golden Womprat, a vessel belonging to an independent supplier contracted to deliver specialty goods for a private gala. Its cargo manifest had been meticulously forged—complete with supplier stamps, invoices, and even a history of past deliveries to wealthy clientele. The docking authorities barely gave it a second glance before waving it through.

Inside the ship's cargo hold, the CSIS agents worked in precise efficiency. They moved crates of imported delicacies and fine spirits onto repulsor lifts, playing the part of a well-practiced delivery crew. They were clad in plain jumpsuits adorned with the fake company's logo—Panaal Trading, a legitimate business. Even in the case someone would have checked back with the company, to verify the authenticity of the freighter's shipment, the management would have confirmed that The Golden Womprat was indeed commissioned with the delivery of delicacies to their esteemed customer. Every detail had been planned down to the smallest element.

Aboard the bridge, 16-year-old Jedi Padawan Nari Chang leaned against the doorway, watching as the viewport filled with the sprawling cityscape of Oba Diah. The planet was a nest of crime, its underworld deeply entrenched in syndicate dealings. But to the untrained eye, it was a thriving trade hub, its streets lined with exotic markets, towering structures, and lavish estates built on wealth accumulated through smuggling, spice trafficking, and blood money.

She exhaled, her breath fogging slightly against the viewport's cool surface.

This is it.

With that thought, she turned on her heel, ducking into the ship's kitchenette to fill a mug with steaming caf. She had a feeling her Master would appreciate it.

The Crime Suppression and Intelligence Service, or CSIS, was unlike anything the Republic had sanctioned before. It was Kenshin's brainchild—born from the brutal lessons of the Clone Wars and the realization that crime syndicates, slavers, and war profiteers had thrived in the absence of Republic law enforcement. Three years after the war, with Anakin Skywalker's support, he had built the CSIS from the ground up. Born from Anakin's dream to end slavery, and a mutual conviction that Jedi should serve the galaxy, they had concluded that this included fighting galactic crime and all the suffering it caused on so many levels.

Unlike the Jedi Order, the CSIS operated in the shadows. They were spies, saboteurs, and enforcers, wielding intelligence, deception, and, when necessary, lethal force. Many of its agents were Jedi—those who had chosen to fight injustice beyond the restrictions of the Code—but the agency also included elite operatives from the Republic's intelligence division, former bounty hunters, slicers, and defected members of criminal organizations who had turned against their former employers.

While he had built up the CSIS and was one of the best agents serving in its ranks, Kenshin Kano had never abandoned his role as Battle Master—his primary duty was still overseeing the training and combat readiness of Jedi across the Order, and his ways solicited a great deal of controversy. As a co-founder of the CSIS, however, his methods had drawn even sharper criticism. Too ruthless, too unorthodox, too willing to embrace the shadows. And yet, their results were undeniable. In just three years, the agency had dismantled Black Sun's core operations, crippled Zerek Besh's expansion into the Core Worlds, and reduced Hutt-backed slavery by nearly half.

Tonight's operation was one of their most ambitious yet—an assault on Crimson Dawn itself, coordinated across multiple planets, aimed at bringing down its leadership and severing its influence across the Outer Rim. And for the first time, Kenshin had allowed Nari to be part of it.

The missions the former Jedi Shadow led were rarely simple. Covert operations, high-risk extractions, assassinations, espionage—each one a delicate balance between strategy and brutality.

It had taken her over a year to convince him to let her come. He hadn't doubted her skills—far from it. She was second only to him in combat, her reflexes honed to near perfection, her instincts sharper than many Knights twice her age. But Kenshin wasn't afraid of her failing. He was afraid of losing her.

And he had admitted it outright.

She admired that about him. His brutal honesty, even in his flaws.

Still, she had pressed. This mission wasn't about combat. If all went as planned, she wouldn't even need to fight. Her role was infiltration—posing as a wealthy socialite, seducing Vos into the perfect position for Kenshin to strike. It had been her idea, and she had argued that it was the safest way to achieve the objective.

He had relented. Barely

The bridge of the freighter hummed with quiet intensity, bathed in the eerie glow of holographic projections. The primary display—a massive holomap—hovered at the center of the room, casting flickering blue light over the surrounding consoles. Blinking red and green indicators marked active strike zones across the galaxy, showing the ongoing operations of other CSIS teams as they simultaneously moved against Crimson Dawn's network. Encrypted transmissions crackled through the comms, updating with brief bursts of coded chatter as squads checked in.

At the edge of the holomap stood a solitary figure, hooded and cloaked in shadow. Even from a distance, there was something unsettling about him, something specterlike, as if there were a quiet, restrained violence simmering just beneath the surface. The dim bridge lighting sharpened the edges of his silhouette, making him appear more wraith than man.

Most people—even Jedi—would have felt the instinctive urge to step back, to lower their voices, to avoid drawing the figure's attention. Predators did not sleep, nor did ghosts forget their hauntings.

But Nari had never been intimidated by his demeanour, nor his reputation.

The steaming mug of caf cradled in her hands, she strode toward him. At her approach, Kenshin turned his head slightly. Even in the low light, she caught the dark circles beneath his eyes, the strain hidden beneath his usual calm. His fingers barely perceptibly trembled as he reached for the caf, though he steadied the motion at the last second.

Nari arched an eyebrow. He was running himself ragged. Again.

"What would you do without me, Master?" she quipped, tilting her head.

Kenshin took a slow sip of caf before drily replying. "Enjoy a moment of quiet and solitude, I guess?" Even after all these years, his voice still carried the distinct and unmistakable cadence of his homeworld—consonants a little softer, vowels shaped by a rhythm unlike the refined, polished speech of most Jedi Masters. He still sounded like an outsider and had never bothered to change that.

She pulled her tongue at him. He snorted, finally giving her a proper once-over.

Nari wasn't in her full disguise yet—her evening gown would come later—but she had already donned the outfit she'd wear on arrival. A fitted, high-neck catsuit and knee-high, sparkly boots of the latest fashion—something a wealthy, spoiled socialite would wear.

Kenshin's mouth twitched at the corners, amusement flickering in his tired gaze.

"That outfit—Padmé's doing?"

"Of course! As if I'd ask you for fashion advice," she shot back, rolling her eyes. "You have the dress sense of a gundark."

Kenshin let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head, but said nothing more.

Meanwhile, Nari turned her attention to the holomap, pretending to study the shifting mission reports. The tactical readouts glowed over her face, but her focus wasn't really on the data.

Her foot started tapping.

Then she shifted her weight from one side to the other.

Then she folded her arms.

Unfolded them.

Then she studied the tactical map again, her fingers drumming absently against the console. The rhythm was uneven, betraying the thoughts creeping into the edges of her mind. She had spent years arguing with Kenshin about this—about him keeping her out of CSIS missions, about his stubborn refusal to let her see the worst of the galaxy firsthand.

She understood why. He had never been subtle about it. The one time she had blurted out that she wanted to be just like him, he had reacted with a sharpness that had stunned her into silence.

Most of the time, their banter was effortless, their debates heated but never truly hostile—just the natural friction between Master and Padawan. If anything, Kenshin treated her with a level of respect few Jedi granted their apprentices. He challenged her, but he also listened. In many ways, he saw her as an equal.

That day had been different. It was the only time they had truly fought. She had been thirteen—frustrated, desperate to prove herself. And he had shut her down with an intensity she hadn't expected.

Being apprenticed to the Ghost was never easy. Kenshin had warned her of that before he took her as his Padawan, but at ten years old, she hadn't fully understood what he meant. Only some time later, she did.

Those who opposed him extended their judgment to her, their disdain for him casting a long shadow over her as well. Others, by contrast, expected nothing less than brilliance. To be the student of the Kenshin Kano—the Ghost, the Jedi Battle Master—was to be held to impossible standards. She was expected to excel, to be exceptional in every way. And for the most part, she was—top of her class in nearly everything.

But the pressure was relentless. Every flaw, every misstep, was scrutinized far more harshly than those of her peers.

She had learned to choose her friends carefully. Too many saw her as nothing more than Kenshin Kano's Padawan, the Ghost's apprentice, rather than as Nari. Few looked past his legacy to recognize that she was her own person.

Kenshin knew. He always knew. But there was little he could do to shield her from it. Force knew he tried! He reminded her—again and again—to trust herself. To believe in the Jedi she was becoming. 'You're already a better Jedi than I could ever hope to be,' he would say. She knew he meant it. But that didn't make the weight on her shoulders any lighter.

On that day, she had argued and argued—pleaded, really—about why she wanted to become a Jedi Shadow, a spy, just like him. After an initial, heated exchange, Kenshin had at last listened in silence, his arms folded, his expression carved from stone. When he finally spoke, it wasn't with the sharp retort she had braced for.

It was quiet. Almost too quiet.

"I don't want to see you die."

The words landed like a blow, stripping the air from her lungs.

The dim light of his quarters had cast jagged shadows across his face, accentuating the deep lines of exhaustion, the tension in his jaw. His dark eyes, always sharp, always assessing, were dull with something she had never seen in them before—not anger, not frustration, but fear. Raw, unguarded fear.

For all his gruffness, Kenshin never lied. That truth had been raw, unfiltered. And it had been the first time she had glimpsed the depth of his fear—of her following in his footsteps, of her becoming like him in ways he couldn't undo.

It hadn't taken her long to understand that he wasn't ashamed of what he was. He had never renounced the Ghost, had never apologized for the path he walked. But he hated that path for her. She had pushed, had tried to argue that she wasn't fragile, that she could handle herself, but he had shut it down every time. "You're already better than me, Nari. Stop trying to become something less."

In the end, he had encouraged her to pursue a different path—one that he had always neglected in himself. Healing. She had a talent for it, something instinctive and precise, a connection in the Force that let her feel how to mend the broken. He had pushed her toward it, and though she had resisted at first, she had come to love it.

But she had never given up, either. She had kept pestering him, chipping away at his stubbornness. If I'm to be a healer, I need to understand what I'm healing. I need to see the worst of the galaxy, too. And maybe—just maybe—she had worn him down enough.

Tonight, she would finally prove that she belonged. That she could stand beside him, not behind him.

She wasn't sure if she was more nervous about the mission, or about making sure Kenshin never regretted letting her come.

His eyes narrowed, glistening. "Remind me, little Sparkplug, why did we even stop to refuel the ship? You have enough nervous energy to power an entire fleet."

Nari grinned, sensing an opening. "Someone needs to brighten the mood, Shorty. And it's about time you stop calling me little."

That made Kenshin pause. She had a point. At sixteen, she was already ten centimeters taller than him. Of course, she would never let him hear the end of it.

"Fine," he relented, rubbing his temples. "But only if you stop buzzing like a bunch of bees high on deathsticks."

"Yeah, no problem," she retorted. "Just as soon as you stop brooding like some tragic holodrama protagonist."

Kenshin sighed again, but there was something fond in his expression as he returned his gaze to the tactical display.

"Listen," he said after a beat, his tone turning serious. "You have no reason to be nervous."

Nari scoffed. "Right. Because this is no high-stakes mission at all."

Kenshin took another sip of caf, unfazed. "Today will only be the end of Crimson Dawn. Nothing out of the ordinary."

The End of Crimson Dawn.

The weight of it settled over her. This wasn't just a simple assassination. It wasn't just an infiltration. This was a coordinated decimation—an attack across multiple planets, orchestrated down to the second, a grand symphony of subterfuge and violence, each strike team executing their role in perfect tandem.

Dryden Vos was the face of Crimson Dawn, but he was only a part of the puzzle. The real prize was information—names, routes, credits, secrets. The deeper they dug, the closer they'd get to the one at the top.

Darth Maul.

Kenshin had spent months orchestrating this operation. He and his teams had gathered intel on Dryden Vos' movements, uncovered the precise timing and location of the gala, and mapped the villa's layout down to the smallest detail. But this was only one piece of a much larger strategy. Through painstaking intelligence work, the CSIS had uncovered the locations of every known Crimson Dawn stronghold, revealing the full scale of the syndicate's operations for the first time. Now, with every key site exposed, the CSIS had launched a simultaneous, multi-pronged attack across the galaxy.

Numerous strike teams were hitting Crimson Dawn's hidden bases, safehouses, and black-market hubs, catching them off guard in a coordinated assault designed to dismantle the syndicate in a single, decisive blow. The mission had two key objectives: capture or eliminate the syndicate's highest-ranking figures—including Dryden Vos—and breach their data centers to extract critical intelligence. Every encrypted file, every financial record, every backdoor deal would be laid bare. And with luck, buried somewhere in that data, they would finally uncover the whereabouts of Darth Maul.

It was a ruthless, calculated offensive—one that had taken months of planning, deception, and precision to prepare. If successful, this would be the death knell of Crimson Dawn. A masterpiece of strategy.

Nari let out a slow breath, still fidgeting. "You're impossible, Master. How are you not nervous?"

Kenshin simply shrugged. "Of what use would that be?"

Then, unexpectedly, he rested a hand on her shoulder.

She blinked at him.

"It's normal to be nervous," he admitted. "And honestly? I probably should be, too." He gave a small, almost self-deprecating chuckle. "I'm just too tired to be, I guess."

Her nose wrinkled. "Because you push yourself too hard."

"Nari—"

"No, seriously!" she cut him off. "I told you earlier that you should let me handle the landing prep and get some sleep! You look like you crawled out of a bacta tank half-finished."

Kenshin made a vaguely threatening sound in the back of his throat. "Don't make me regret letting you join this mission, little Pest."

Nari smirked. "Come now, Master. Deep down, you know it: You'd be lost without me."

He shot her a flat look, but the corner of his mouth betrayed a little smile. "Debatable," he muttered.

"Not really." She folded her arms, giving him a confident tilt of her head. "I keep you supplied with caf, I remind you to sleep, I make sure you don't forget to eat… let's be honest, Kenshin, you need me."

He gave her a long, suffering look. "You talk entirely too much."

Nari's grin widened. "And you brood too much."

He took another slow sip of his caf, then deadpanned, "And yet, only one of us has been told to shut up today. Maybe you should reflect on that."

"Aye, Captain Broody." She gave him a mocking salute.

Kenshin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why do I feel that taking down a crime syndicate is the easy part…"

---

The ship touched down in a private docking bay just outside Vos' estate, nestled within the craggy mountains of Oba Diah. The surrounding structures were a blend of opulence and secrecy, high walls shielding the villa from prying eyes while hidden security measures ensured that only the invited ever entered or left.

Half a day remained before the gala, giving them ample time to assume their cover.

As the CSIS agents played the part of a delivery crew, unloading crates and signing off inventory checklists with forged documentation, Nari slipped away into the city's upper districts. Her first stop—a high-end hotel booked under an alias, a temporary home to complete her transformation.

By nightfall, she would be someone else entirely—an heir to a powerful corporate dynasty, a charming guest at Dryden Vos' grand event. And if everything went according to plan, the last person he would ever suspect.

She had soon found the hotel complex and took a deep breath. With confident, firm steps, she strode into the opulent lobby, adjusting the strap of her designer handbag - also a piece she had borrowed from Padmé - as she took in her surroundings. Chandeliers cast a soft golden glow over polished marble floors, and towering windows framed the city skyline in glittering neon. The air carried the faint scent of expensive perfume, mingled with the ever-present hum of quiet, controlled luxury. She had never stayed in a place like this before and felt like she was assuming a role that didn't quite belong to her.

The concierge greeted her with a courteous bow, handing over the keycard to her suite. "Welcome, Miss Renai Tavira," he said, addressing her by her cover identity. "It is an honour to welcome you in our esteemed establishment. Your father has ensured the finest accommodations for your stay."

She smiled, feigning an air of mild disinterest, as if this was all routine to her. "Of course he has," she replied breezily, taking the card and moving toward the elevator.

As she stepped toward the lift, a quiet cough caught her attention. Just beyond the gleaming marble counters and velvet lounges, where the guests barely spared them a glance, the service staff moved about their duties. One young Twi'lek woman, dressed in the crisp uniform of the hotel's cleaning staff, was leaning against a supply cart, her face pale, lekku drooping with exhaustion.

Nari slowed her pace. The woman pressed a hand to her chest, swallowing hard before bending down to pick up a linen bundle.

"Hey," Nari said, stepping closer. "Are you alright?"

The Twi'lek startled at first, clearly not expecting one of the guests to acknowledge her, let alone speak with concern. She straightened, forcing a tired smile. "Just a bit under the weather," she said, though the rasp in her voice and the sheen of sweat on her forehead told a different story.

"You should see a medic," Nari pressed.

The woman glanced around, as if to ensure nobody was watching, then shook her head, her smile faltering. "There's nowhere to go."

Nari frowned. "What do you mean?"

"There's no med center for workers like us," the Twi'lek explained. "The rich have their private doctors, but people like me? We get sick, we work through it. If we can't… well, someone else takes our place."

Nari's stomach twisted. She had grown up in the Jedi Temple, where healers tended to anyone in need. It was easy to forget that the rest of the galaxy didn't work that way.

Before she could say anything else, a human supervisor passed by, shooting a pointed look in their direction. The Twi'lek straightened immediately, grabbing a tray and hurrying off without another word.

Nari watched her go, unease settling in her chest. This mission was about taking down Crimson Dawn, but already, she was seeing another wound in this world—one just as deep, just as cruel.

Not much later, she drifted into the gilded opulence of Dryden Vos' gala, seamlessly absorbed into the swirl of silk and arrogance that filled the grand hall. The towering glass windows framed a breathtaking view of Oba Diah's sprawling cityscape, its neon lights flickering against the darkened sky like scattered jewels. A full orchestra played in the background, their melody refined yet impersonal, drowned out by the hum of extravagant conversation and the clinking of crystal glasses. Servers in crisp uniforms weaved through the throng, balancing trays of delicacies that most beings in the galaxy would never even see, let alone taste.

It was an obscene display of wealth.

Golden chandeliers, so large they could crush a landspeeder, bathed the room in a warm, decadent glow. Intricate tapestries from the Core Worlds lined the walls, some likely worth entire fleets. Exotic flora, imported from the most luxurious planets, perfumed the air. Nari caught a glimpse of a fountain, its cascading streams shimmering like liquid silver—an unnecessary excess when entire systems struggled for clean drinking water.

And yet, just beyond this glittering spectacle, the workers who made it all possible labored in silence, ignored and unseen.

The face of the Twi'lek woman from earlier lingered in her mind, refusing to be forgotten. How many others lived like her? Sick, exhausted, unable to afford even basic medical care? And here, beings draped in silk and adorned in crystal-studded accessories indulged in a single evening that likely cost more credits than entire villages earned in a lifetime. The thought sickened her.

The sickly pallor of her skin. The weariness in her voice. The way she had spoken of having nowhere to go, no care to seek out, while just meters away, guests swirled rare Indellian firefruit in crystal goblets, likely unaware of the workers who had placed them there. Or perhaps they were aware and simply didn't care.

The injustice of it burned, but she swallowed the feeling down, forcing herself to focus. She could not afford distractions.

She smiled, nodding gracefully at a well-dressed politician who raised his glass in passing. Her Jedi training steadied her, kept her composed even as disgust coiled in her stomach. Tonight, she was not Padawan Nari Chang. She was Renai Tavira, the daughter of a wealthy Core World magnate, here to charm and negotiate.

Her eyes scanned the room, catching the gleam of a silver tray as she plucked a flute of Chandrilan starfire wine from a passing server. The woman, a human with striking blue eyes, met her glance for the briefest moment—Hela, one of the CSIS agents. The silent acknowledgment passed between them before the operative melted back into the crowd, resuming her role.

Her master should soon be in position, perched somewhere unseen, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Kenshin's task was to take down Dryden Vos with a single shot from a sniper rifle —non-lethal, but precise. The projectile was coated with a powerful narcotic, designed to incapacitate him without killing. The strategy was to have the crime lord alive, for questioning. The narcotic was a formula she had developed herself in a chemistry project at the temple academy, tailoring it for this very mission. If anything went wrong, she had her own methods of delivering the same substance—her hairpins were laced with it.

She adjusted the drape of her evening gown and lifted the wine glass to her lips, taking a small sip—not enough to cloud her senses, but enough to blend in. Her jewelry gleamed under the chandeliers' glow, each piece carefully chosen for effect. The necklace, extravagant and striking, could double as a garrote wire, its pendant concealing a micro-explosive. The bracelet on her left wrist held a stack of razor-thin throwing blades, while the one on her right housed a miniature energy shield, ready to snap into place at a moment's notice. Kenshin's handiwork.

She had never known he possessed such skill in crafting weapons beyond lightsabers, but the pieces were masterworks—lethal and exquisite, indistinguishable from the wealth dripping off the guests around her. She admired them for a fleeting moment before forcing herself to let go of the thought.

She wasn't here to marvel at her disguise. She was here to do a job – to bring the crime lord into a position where Kenshin could land his shot.

---

Through the scope of his sniper rifle, Dryden Vos came into perfect view. Nari had lured him exactly where Kenshin had planned—where he needed him to be. The shot was lined up, the trajectory calculated down to the millimeter. A simple pull of the trigger, and the crime lord would drop before he even knew what hit him. Several CSIS agents, currently posing as security guards, would then only have to collect him like a ripe fruit.

Kenshin exhaled slowly. Steady hands, steady breath. The weight of the rifle was familiar, a natural extension of his body. Inhale, hold, squeeze—

But as his finger began to tighten on the trigger, the world shifted.

The warm glow of the villa's chandeliers flickered, and for the briefest of moments, they warped into the towering, golden arcs of the Galactic Senate. The murmuring guests – which he could hear through the concealed comm - blurred, their laughter replaced by the low, droning voice of a Sith Lord.

"My dear Senators…"

The crosshairs wavered. Kenshin blinked, shaking his head. He saw the Grand Convocation hall of the Senate before his eyes, crosshairs locked onto the Supreme Chancellor.

And Anakin.

A senator called out. Palpatine turned his head.

Kenshin had waited, just as he was waiting now, for the exact moment to strike. And then—just as he pulled the trigger—Anakin moved.

No, no, no—

His breath caught. His vision blurred. The barrel of the rifle felt suddenly heavy. His hands trembled, his fingers going numb.

How could you! You were my brother, Kenshin! TRAITOR! TRAITOR! TRAITOR!

Anakin's voice echoed through his mind.

His shot went wide.

The impact struck a decorative fuel lantern above the gala floor. The explosion was immediate, fire and shards of glass raining down onto the startled guests. Screams erupted. Security droids activated, crimson lights flashing as guards rushed into action.

Kenshin's breath came in hard, ragged gasps, his vision still blurred as the echoes of the past clawed at his mind.

No!

His ears were ringing, but beyond it, the night had erupted into chaos—shouts, panicked footsteps, the crackle of fire and blaster bolts being drawn. Security droids swarmed the courtyard below, red scanners sweeping for threats. But none of it mattered.

Nari. His fellow agents. The mission.

He fumbled for his commlink, fingers stiff and clumsy as he pressed the receiver.

"Nari? Report."

Only static.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

The signal was jammed—or worse.

Adrenaline overrode the lingering haze of his fractured mind, forcing him to move. He swung the rifle over his back and leapt down from his vantage point, landing in a crouch on the sloped metal roofing of a lower annex. His muscles screamed in protest, his nerves raw, but he pushed through it. A misstep here would send him plummeting into the stone courtyard below.

The ground was farther than he'd like. Too far. No choice.

He sprinted forward and jumped.

The moment his boots hit duracrete, pain shot up his leg. The impact rattled his ribs, but he gritted his teeth and kept going. He was losing time.

Ahead, flames from the blast licked the air, casting jagged shadows against the villa's pristine walls. Guards scrambled to secure exits. Gala guests shoved past each other in terror.

The main hall. The team would be extracting from the main hall.

He pushed forward, keeping to the side alleys, every muscle in his body coiled, ready to strike down anything in his way.

Then—his foot slipped.

His balance wavered for half a second, but that was all it took. He hit the ground hard, shoulder slamming into the edge of a staircase. A burst of pain shot through his skull, a white-hot bolt of agony that swallowed the world whole.

Darkness.

---

Screams and chaos echoed through the grand hall, chandeliers swaying from the force of the explosion. Crimson-clad guards barked orders, their blasters drawn, searching for the unseen threat. "Farkled!" Nari thought. Kenshin had missed his shot! She would wonder later why, now she had to act. The good thing, with Vos being conscious, he could walk himself, and she had never heard of a crime lord who didn't have emergency transportation ready.

Nari let out a perfectly timed gasp, tightening her grip around Dryden Vos' arm. She played her part flawlessly—eyes wide with terror, breath hitched in panic, her body pressing close to his for safety.

"Dryden!" she exclaimed, breathless. "What's happening? Are we under attack?"

Vos' sharp gaze darted around the hall, his jaw clenched. The man was a predator by nature, but even a predator knew when to flee.

"We're leaving," he growled. His grip on her wrist tightened—not possessive, but protective. "I enjoyed our conversation too much to end it here. Come with me. Now!"

Exactly as imagined.

She let herself be pulled along as Vos shoved past panicked guests and bolted for the hidden escape route. A single press of his ring against the side panel of a statue, and a concealed door slid open. A dark, steel corridor stretched ahead, leading downward.

Inside, more guards. More security.

They raced through the passage, past vaulted chambers lined with crates of weapons and artifacts. At the end of the corridor, a sleek, black speeder waited—one of Crimson Dawn's private getaway vehicles.

The pilot droid was already priming the engines.

Vos wasted no time shoving her into the seat beside him as he barked, "Go!"

The speeder shot forward, engines roaring as they burst out of an underground hangar into the open night sky. Below them, the villa burned, the estate descending into total chaos.

Nari swallowed hard, glancing at Vos, feigning worry. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere safe," he assured her, placing a hand on her knee as if to comfort her. "You'll be fine, sweetheart."

Her stomach turned at the false warmth in his voice.

Enough games.

She reached up, pretending to fix a loose strand of hair—then, in one fluid motion, plucked a silver hairpin from her elaborate updo.

The sharp tip gleamed in the ambient city light.

Before Vos could register the movement, she plunged it into the side of his neck, right between the tendons.

He stiffened. His breath hitched.

The paralytic agent worked instantly. His muscles locked, his fingers twitching as he tried to move, but his strength failed him.

"You—"

"Shh," she cooed, guiding the speeder with one hand as she pulled his body against hers to keep him upright. "It's fast-acting, but don't worry—you won't die. I just need you nice and still."

His mouth formed silent curses, but his limbs refused to obey.

With her free hand, Nari reached over and yanked the controls from the pilot droid, switching the speeder to manual. With a sharp turn, she banked away from the original flight path, angling toward their real destination—the CSIS extraction point.

In the distance, their freighter, The Golden Womprat, loomed in the skyline.

Within minutes, she maneuvered the speeder into the docking bay, guiding it smoothly onto the platform. As soon as she cut the engines, the bay doors hissed shut, sealing them inside.

The moment they landed, armed CSIS agents rushed forward.

She released Vos' limp body into their waiting arms, brushing a strand of hair from her face as she exhaled.

"Target secured," she announced, planting her hands on her hips. A slow, satisfied smirk crossed her lips. "That wasn't so hard."

One of the agents chuckled as they clamped binders onto Vos' wrists.

"Didn't think you had it in you, kid."

She arched a brow. "Please. You think Master Kano would have taken me on if I didn't?"

The agent's expression turned serious. "Speaking of, where is he?"

A cold feeling crept into her chest. "I thought he'd be here already. He hasn't reported in?"

"No. We keep comming him, but no response yet."

---

A sharp, insistent noise cut through the void.

Sounds, words, distant but persistent.

"—Agent Ghost? Are you there? Respond! Repeat, mission successful. Target secured. Data retrieved. Everyone is accounted for. Return to base."

Kenshin's mind clawed its way back to the present. His body ached, a dull throbbing in his skull, his ribs. Somewhere, he felt warmth trickling down his temple. The staircase had had a glass lining, that was now shattered into shards. Shards that were red with blood – he had crashed hard into the structure!

His fingers twitched, reaching blindly for his comm.

"…Copy." His voice was hoarse, raw.

"Agent Ghost! Glad to hear you're alive. Report your status. Do do you require assistance?"

He exhaled sharply, pressing a hand against the pavement as he forced himself upright. He absolutely needed help. But he had failed and burdened his team enough for one night.

"I'll make my own way." he croaked out.

He staggered to his feet, the golden light of the burning villa casting long shadows across his path. He had failed his part of the mission. But despite him—despite his mistake—they had succeeded.

And yet, a sick, twisting weight settled deep in his chest. Because this was not over.

Not for him.

Not yet.

---

Above the orbit of Oba Diah, the Golden Womprat prepared for the jump to hyperspace.

The entire crew had gathered on the bridge, the air buzzing with adrenaline and relief. Every strike team across the galaxy had reported in—the mission had been a complete success. Across the galaxy, Crimson Dawn's operations had been dismantled in a single night, their strongholds either taken or burned to the ground.

The agents were celebrating, passing around hidden liquor reserves, laughing and recounting close calls. And at the center of it all, they celebrated Nari. She had taken down Dryden Vos herself, securing the mission's primary target when all seemed lost.

And yet, she couldn't enjoy it.

Kenshin had at last reported in, confirming he was on board, but he hadn't joined the celebration.

She sighed, setting her untouched drink aside. He wasn't in his bunk, nor in the medical bay, nor the kitchenette. She even checked the fresher, which was empty. Suppressing a string of obscenities, she stretched her senses into the Force—only to find the same nothingness as always. Damn it, why does he always do that? Concealing his presence like that made it impossible to track him down.

Which meant she had to rely on instinct.

Eventually, she found him in the engine room, curled against the wall behind a transformer block, knees drawn up, a half-empty bottle dangling loosely from his fingers.

Nari's breath hitched. The sharp scent of alcohol mixed with the faint, coppery tang of blood.

Her gaze fell onto the dark smear on the wall beside him. He had slumped there while still bleeding.

"Master…" she called softly.

No response.

She stepped closer, her worry deepening. He never drinks. She had seen him nurse a glass of Sake once or twice, but this? A half-empty bottle in his grip, his shoulders trembling, his stare hollow and unfocused, and his cheeks wet with tears—this was something else entirely.

She had seen him wounded before, had seen him push himself past exhaustion more often than she cared to admit. But she had never seen this.

"Kenshin," she tried again, quieter now.

"Leave me alone." His voice was hoarse, raw.

Like hell she would.

Ignoring his words, she dropped down beside him, resting her forearms on her knees. "In case you haven't noticed, you're bleeding. You need medical attention."

He gave a bitter snort. "And I said, leave me alone."

She folded her arms. "What's wrong?"

He let out a short, humorless laugh, then lifted the bottle to his lips. A moment later, he hurled it across the room. Glass shattered against the opposite wall, the sharp sound echoing through the hum of the engines.

"You really have to ask?" His tone was sharper now, edged with something dangerous. "I'm the commander of this unit. I put this mission together. I trained these people. And I'm the one who almost fucked up the entire operation!"

Nari flinched but didn't look away.

"If it weren't for you," he went on, his voice low and venomous, "my mistake would have cost us Vos and months of work. You were incredible out there, Nari. You turned a disaster into a success."

She exhaled slowly. "Oh, you know, my Master does train me well."

His lips twisted into something that almost resembled a smirk, but it didn't last.

"This was your success, Kenshin. You designed the entire operation. And my part? That shot going wide only made what I did possible. It was the perfect distraction. All I had to do was steer Vos into our open arms."

He barked a short, bitter laugh. "What kind of Master am I? One who needs his teenage Padawan to clean up his mess? I'm useless, and I'd better acknowledge it now. It's time I stop fooling myself."

"The only thing you need to do, you nerfherder, is shut up and listen to me," she snapped. "We all make mistakes sometimes. We all need help sometimes. You don't have to do everything alone!"

His jaw tightened. "And you shouldn't have to carry responsibility like that."

"In an ideal world? No, I wouldn't. But we don't live in an ideal world. The galaxy is still recovering from war, and no matter how much you try to shield me, I will face danger. I will face threats. That's reality. And you can't protect me from everything forever. But you have done what any great Master would do—you taught me how to protect myself. And others."

He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. "Shut up. I'm a failure, and I know it."

"You're not a failure! You missed one shot, Kenshin. That's all."

His breath was unsteady, his shoulders tense.

"And what if my shot had not hit an object?" His voice was quieter now, but no less raw. "What if this had been a different scenario—lethal ammunition? What if things had gone differently, and I had gotten one of our agents killed? What if I had hit you? I'm not in a position where mistakes are an option, Nari!"

Kenshin slammed his fist into the housing of the transformator block, the impact sending a dull clang through the cramped space. Pain shot through his knuckles, but he barely registered it. More of his blood smeared across the dented metal.

"I still don't understand what happened…" His voice was hoarse, shaking with something close to desperation. "This has never happened before. I don't break under pressure—I never have. But something in me… snapped. I—" He exhaled sharply, his breath ragged. "What the hell is wrong with me?"

Nari stared at him, studying his slumped form with narrowed eyes. She didn't hesitate.

"Oh, I can tell you what's wrong." She said sharply. "You're exhausted, and have been for a long time. So tell me—when's the last time you had a real meal? I mean something other than ration bars and vitamin capsules? When's the last time you actually slept through the night?"

Kenshin's fingers curled into fists, but he didn't answer.

"You're serving as Battle Master. You're leading the CSIS. You're putting in hours training me. And you still take personal missions on top of that! When's the last time you stopped?" The sharpness in her words softened, but the urgency remained. "You cannot pour from an empty cup, Kenshin. Nobody can! Especially not you, given—" She gestured at him. "—your permanently compromised health. You push yourself too hard, too far. And one day, it will be too much."

He finally looked up at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. Then he turned away.

Nari's chest tightened.

"Kenshin… Kenshin, hey!"

She reached out, cupping his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her. His skin was clammy under her fingers, and she could feel the tension thrumming beneath the surface, the storm raging inside him.

"Even ghosts can die," she whispered. "And I cannot lose you." Her grip tightened, voice fierce with conviction. "I still need you."

Something in his eyes cracked, but he shook his head. "You don't need me," he muttered. "You're already an amazing Jedi. I've never been a good master. You never needed me."

Her breath caught.

"Do you remember when I first met you?" she asked, a little more softly. "Because I do. I was seven years old. And you… you were the first person to believe in me. When no one else did. When even my teachers thought I was a lost cause, you didn't."

Kenshin's shoulders stiffened.

"You never looked at me like I was too young, too small, too insignificant." Her voice wavered, but she pressed on. "You took me seriously. You made me feel like I mattered. And I remember… every time I was scared. When I had nightmares. When I woke up crying." Her fingers trembled slightly. "You never judged me. You never told me to 'get over it.' You just sat with me. You made me feel safe."

A ragged breath shuddered from him.

"And everything I know? Everything I am?" Her eyes burned, her grip still firm on his face. "I owe it to you, Master. Every skill I have, every fight I've won—it's because you trained me."

He didn't answer. He just stared at her, something unreadable flickering in his almost black eyes. Nari exhaled, rubbing at her temples. Stubborn, broody, self-destructive idiot.

"You know," she said, the tone a little lighter now, "if you're really set on wallowing, I can go grab another bottle. Maybe find you a dark corner to brood in while I bring you cheese to go with your whine."

Kenshin turned his head just enough to shoot her a withering glare.

"There he is," she muttered. "For a second, I thought you'd finally lost your ability to be an insufferable pain in my ass."

He snorted but didn't lift his head.

Nari shifted so she was sitting cross-legged beside him, resting her elbows on her knees. "Look, I get it. You're upset. You made a mistake. But you know what else you did?"

Silence.

She poked his shoulder. "You built this entire operation. You gathered the intel, coordinated every strike, set every piece in place. And it worked, Kenshin. The entire Crimson Dawn network collapsed overnight. That was your doing."

He let out a humorless chuckle. "Oh, great. I designed the whole thing. And then, when it came time to pull the trigger, I was the only one who failed."

Nari resisted the urge to shove him. Barely.

"For Force's sake, listen to yourself! You didn't fail. You slipped—once. Once! And we still won. And honestly?" She tilted her head. "I'm glad your shot missed."

Kenshin's head jerked up, eyes narrowing. "What?"

She met his glare evenly. "If it hadn't, I wouldn't have been the one to take him down."

Something changed in his expression—something she couldn't quite place. Surprise? Annoyance? A mix of both?

He sighed, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. "Now you sound just like Anakin."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

He muttered something in his native language that she was pretty sure was an insult.

Nari smirked, but the amusement faded quickly. She could still see it—that darkness and pain in his eyes.

"I should have protected you from this," he rasped. "From all of it."

"You did protect me."

He shook his head. "I trained you. That's different."

Nari smiled faintly. "Not really."

Kenshin let out a long breath, closing his eyes. She could feel it through the Force—the way the storm inside him settled, if only slightly.

"You are SO much work," he muttered.

She grinned. "And you are so kriffing dramatic."

His eyes opened halfway, and this time, just barely, she saw the ghost of a smirk.

"I'll let you have that one," he admitted.

"Damn right you will."

She glanced at the shattered bottle and the blood still smeared on the wall. "You done throwing your little tantrum?"

His eyes narrowed.

"I mean," she amended quickly, "your very mature and dignified spiral of self-loathing?"

"Go to hell, Nari."

She exhaled slowly. Then, without a word, she moved to her feet and extended a hand.

"Come on."

For a long moment, Kenshin didn't move.

Then—slowly, hesitantly—he reached up, grasping her hand.

She helped him up, steadying him when he swayed slightly. Without giving him a chance to protest, she guided him toward the ship's medbay, ignoring his half-hearted grumbles. She cleaned his wounds, dressed his injuries, and—after a solid half hour of arguing—managed to calm him down enough so he would sleep. After all that, she instructed the crew to not disturb him, under no circumstances.

---

He was a contradiction. She had known that for years, had lived in the space between his silences and sharp-edged truths. But tonight… tonight, she still didn't understand.

Kenshin had never been subtle about his flaws. He wasn't one to make excuses or sugarcoat reality—not to himself, and certainly not to her. He owned his mistakes with an honesty so raw it could cut. That was one of the things she admired most about him. While other Masters tiptoed around their Padawans, sheltering them from difficult realities, or covered up their own shortcomings, Kenshin had never once treated her like a child. He spoke to her as an equal. He respected her enough to tell her the truth—no matter how ugly.

Where she was restless energy and unchecked momentum, he was steady, immovable—like a still point in the chaos, a force neither rushed nor swayed. In his presence, she felt anchored, safe, like nothing could touch her—as she had when she was a child, sneaking into his room after nightmares, finding comfort in his quiet, unwavering presence.

But there was something else beneath the surface—something he carried with him every moment of every day. A weight. A sadness. A wound he refused to let heal.

She had asked. Pushed. She had confronted him, again and again, with all the unfiltered bluntness he claimed to appreciate. And every time, he would meet her gaze, voice calm and tired, and say:
"I don't have the strength to talk about it."

Why? Why was he so afraid of letting people in? Why did he insist on carrying whatever burden this was alone?

Kenshin kept his friends at a distance. Outside of his duties, he downright avoided people. He trusted Anakin and Depa Billaba. He spoke to Obi-Wan, sometimes, and then there was Jocasta Nu—of all people—his unlikely friend, bound by a shared love of literature. But beyond them? It was as if he had chosen solitude, as if allowing someone to care was more dangerous than facing down an enemy with a blade.

And then there was the way he treated himself.

His recovery after the war had been brutal, but in the end, he had regained the stocky, muscled physique and strength of his younger years, the sharpness of his reflexes, the lethal martial proficiency.

What he had not regained was his endurance. His resilience. His health. He lived in constant pain. And the nerve damage Sidious had left him with—he still had no sense of touch in parts of his body.
That was how he had nearly bled to death on one mission. He had taken a deep cut across his ribs, but kept going, unaware of the blood soaking his robes until he collapsed. Had she not been there to heal him, he would have died.

And still, he kept pushing himself past the breaking point, pulled reckless moves, numbed the pain—both physical and emotional—with more work, more training, more of the painkillers she knew he took in quantities that would kill a gundark.

One would have thought that with everything weighing on him—his responsibilities, his health issues, the sheer exhaustion often pressing down on him—he would seize whatever moments of rest he could. But no.

She remembered one night vividly. She and her friends had stayed late in the archives, cramming for a particularly difficult exam. It had been way past midnight when she finally left, bleary-eyed, ready to collapse into bed. But as she passed by the dojo, she heard it—the sharp, rhythmic sound of a saber slicing through the air.

She found Kenshin, alone, drilling strikes and parries with relentless precision, his expression unreadable, his body moving on sheer instinct. She had called him out on it, of course. And, of course, he had had the audacity to lecture her about how staying up late would do her no good, that rest was necessary for learning. Then, without so much as acknowledging the hypocrisy, he had ordered her to bed.

The next morning, she found him slumped over a mission report, fast asleep where he sat, head pillowed against his forearm.

It had happened too many times to count. She had lost track of how often she had caught him like that—pushing himself beyond reason, then inevitably crashing. Or worse, the moments in between, when he simply sat in silence, staring at nothing, the weight of unseen battles pressing in around him.

Didn't he see what he was doing to himself?

What was he running from?

In the criminal underworlds of the galaxy, the Ghost was something to be feared. But sometimes, Nari wondered—was there something inside of him that scared him even more?

And as Battle Master? No one could deny what he had done. Within two years from stepping into office, he had reshaped Jedi combat training from the ground up. No more ritualized katas, no more static, rule-bound forms—Jedi now were trained for real combat situations. They learned how to fight bounty hunters, assassins, criminals. They learned urban warfare, counter-terrorism, and—most controversially—how to kill when there was no other choice.

The traditionalists had despised him for it. Hiring bounty hunters as instructors? Training Jedi to be soldiers? He had been called reckless. Heretical. Dangerous.

But his methods worked. Despite the galaxy still being unstable, Jedi casualties had dropped. Their survival rates were higher than they had been even before the war.

And yet, despite everything—despite his success, despite the lives he had saved—he still kept himself apart.

Even now, as the crew celebrated on the bridge, as his agents raised their drinks to his victory, where was he?
Withdrawn. Alone. Shying away from people like a rikknit from a tusk lion.

Kenshin was a brilliant strategist, a sharp-minded investigator, a warrior so skilled it bordered on terrifying, and a powerful Jedi uniquely strong with the Force. He was also a kind, patient, and unwaveringly supportive mentor. And yet, for all his strength, for all his insight, he had no idea how to take care of himself. Worse—he had no intention of even trying.

It was beyond her.

---

Back on Coruscant, life at the Jedi Temple resumed as if nothing had changed. Classes, training sessions, and—to her great discontent—mission reports filled her days. The galaxy moved forward, and she had to as well.
And yet, the hollow look in the Twi'lek woman's eyes refused to leave her. That quiet resignation, the unspoken knowledge that no help was coming. It gnawed at her thoughts, lingering long after she had left Oba Diah behind.

It took a while, then the idea came to her.

Dryden Vos' manor was abandoned now, with no one left to lay claim to it. But what if it didn't stay that way? What if it became something more? A medical facility, funded by the Republic, where even the poorest could find treatment. A place where people like that Twi'lek woman—like all those who had been left to suffer in the shadows of Oba Diah's wealth—could receive the care they had never been afforded.

She first approached Jero with the idea. He was still a good friend, and ever since she had taken up medical classes, also a good advisor. He had listened thoughtfully, then nodded, saying that it was not only feasible but sorely needed. The issue, as always, was funding, and organization.

But strategy was something her own Master might have some ideas about.

She found him the next morning, a dark silhouette ahead of her in the hallway. Quickening her pace, she scurried to catch up.

"Morning, Master. Where are you off to?"

"Trying to escape a certain little pest, obviously."

"Huh. Good luck with that," she shot back. "I think the not-so-little pest is faster than you by now."

Kenshin turned to give her one of his signature unreadable looks. Well, maybe not too unreadable. She could place this one somewhere between You wish, as if…. and ... I am deciding whether it's worth the energy to throw you out an airlock somewhere…

"Ah, I see," she mused, smirking. "Mr. Grumpy Face is having a field day again. What's wrong?"

"Can you please wait until I've had some caf before you talk to me?"

"Since the cafeteria is right ahead, I think I can wait that long. Maybe."

As soon as they had settled at a table, Kenshin clutching his caf like it contained the secrets of the universe, she leaned forward.

"Now, tell me. What's wrong? The debriefings went great. You and the CSIS even got praise from critics. Even Master Windu acknowledged YOUR achievement, and I know you kind of hate each other…" She paused as realization dawned. "You're still beating yourself up over that missed shot? Don't you think that's getting a bit old now, and for NO reason, too?"

He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. "You have a point. But still—I, a grown-ass Jedi Master, had a full breakdown in front of my Padawan. I'm supposed to be the adult here, and instead, you had to step into that role. I'm not exactly proud of myself."

Nari groaned. "By the Force and moons and stars, Kenshin! There's nothing wrong with supporting each other, you know?" She tapped her chin. "Hmm. What was it that Master Kenobi said again? 'A true master learns as much from the apprentice as the apprentice learns from the master.' You might want to take notes." Then, with a smirk, she added, "Besides, at your impressive height of a whopping 1.7 meters, I wouldn't be throwing around words like grown—"

Ohhh, the look he shot her now. A glower over the rim of his mug that promised consequences.

"How tall are you again?" he asked.

"As of now? 1.8 meters. And at my last health check, they said I might still grow a little more."

"1.8 meters..." He took a slow sip of caf. "That's a lot of bantha poodoo stacked up high."

Nari burst out laughing. He shook his head, but she didn't miss the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.

"Now," he said, setting down his mug. "Why are you bothering me first thing in the morning? We're supposed to meet this afternoon for training."

"There's something I need to talk to you about."

She told him.

He listened, as he always did, his expression composed and neutral as she explained her thoughts. When she finished, he gave a slow nod, a hint of approval in his black-brown eyes.

"Develop the idea," he told her. "Present it to the Council. And if they don't know how to fund it, I'm sure Padmé is easy to convince and cunning enough to find ways to make it happen. Gotta be good for something to be friends with the Vice-Chancellor and her husband!"

"But—"

"But what? It's a big project, yes, but a great idea, and you have what it takes. Did I train you to trust yourself or not?"

Nari took a steady breath. He wasn't wrong. At last, she smiled timidly. "Yes, Master."

She expected resistance, skepticism. The Jedi Order had never been known for swift action. But to her shock, the Council accepted her proposal.

When she expressed her surprise, Kenshin merely huffed, amused. "I wasn't surprised at all," he commented.

True to form, he helped her draft the initial plans, guiding her through the logistics of repurposing the building and ensuring the project had all it needed to get off the ground. The planning phase would take months, but the foundation was set.

Meanwhile, the CSIS worked tirelessly, combing through the data extracted from Crimson Dawn's archives. The files revealed an extensive criminal empire spanning multiple sectors. Accounts hidden behind layers of encryption were traced and frozen. Safehouses were raided, and business partners exposed. The stolen data gave them a direct blueprint of corruption, allowing Republic forces to dismantle smuggling operations, arms dealing rings, and even entire slave trafficking routes.

Despite its controversial status, the CSIS had undeniably struck a critical blow against galactic crime. And for the first time, even their harshest critics had to acknowledge the results.

To officially recognize their efforts, Vice Chancellor Padmé Amidala announced a formal celebration to honor the CSIS and its agents.

It should have been a moment of pride.

And yet…

---

The intelligence gathered from Crimson Dawn's archives was beyond what they had hoped for. The syndicate was crippled, its operations dismantled, its influence reduced to ashes. The insight they gained would allow them to trace down even deeper levels of galactic criminal networks.

And still… one element was as elusive as ever. Maul had slipped through their grasp like smoke, and Kenshin knew that as long as he remained at large, the threat would never truly be over. A dormant flame, waiting for the right gust of wind to set the galaxy ablaze once more.

It had been a long day. A frustrating one. Kenshin sat cross-legged on the floor of his quarters, hands resting lightly on his knees, his mind a tangle of thoughts.

The room was as sparse as the day he had moved into it.

He had never moved from this space, never claimed the larger quarters befitting a Jedi Master. When he had first taken this room, long before the war, he hadn't intended to stay. And after the war… he hadn't seen the point in changing anything.

It held only what was necessary. A sleeping mat, a low table with two seat cushions, a cookplate and a tea set. The only ornamentation —if it could even be called that— was a single katana displayed on a wooden stand—the replacement for the one Anakin had shattered as he had destroyed the artefact in the battle in the Archives. He had brought this new blade back from his homeworld Nanta after the war, but he had never used it. He had never even practiced with it.

With a quiet breath, he reached for the control panel beside him, lowering the window shades. The cityscape beyond disappeared, plunging the room into deep, muted twilight. The silence was welcome. Even the presence of another living being was too much. He didn't want to see anyone, didn't want to speak.

He had locked the door from the inside, ensuring he wouldn't have to.

He needed the solitude.

Especially from her.

Nari had a habit of waltzing in whenever she pleased, sprawling across his floor to study or lounging at his table, munching on snacks as if his room were her own personal retreat. She always said it was quieter here. Easier to focus.

Usually, he didn't mind. Usually, he welcomed it.

She was a relentless force of nature, all energy and laughter and wit—an infuriating whirlwind of life that barged through his carefully constructed walls and refused to let him brood in peace. She was the only person in the Temple who had the audacity to mock him, to poke and prod at his sour moods until they cracked just enough to let the light in. He knew she saw more than she let on; even though he tried to hide his dark thoughts from her, she picked up on them. And he hated that.

Because the truth was, she was the best thing to happen to him.

His training sessions with her were the brightest part of his day, the only time he felt any semblance of joy. She was nothing short of a prodigy! And yet, he didn't see how he had anything to do with her success. She was remarkable all on her own. Brilliant. Strong. Compassionate.

So much better than him.

He had tried—tried—to tell her she deserved a better master. That she should be reassigned to someone more suited to her skills, her path. Since she was training to be a healer, she had to take healing classes with the medical instructors anyway. He was a swordsman. What could he possibly teach her?

But she wouldn't hear it. Wouldn't even consider it.

And a selfish part of him was glad.

He was just so tired. And lately, he couldn't even manage himself, let alone guide a student.

Oba Diah had shaken something loose in him, something raw and ugly.

The mission had been a success. He knew that. Logically, he knew that.

But all he could see was his failure. That moment—the hesitation, the weakness—had torn open wounds he had thought had healed. But no. They were still there, festering just beneath the surface, and now they bled freely, drowning him in a darkness he couldn't fight.

Meditation no longer brought him solace. The Force no longer anchored him.

There were too many days when he couldn't crawl out of this endless abyss, when he felt like a leaf caught in a violent storm, weightless, directionless, spiraling toward nothing. When the core of his very self was dissolving, until he was merely an observer—trapped outside his own body, watching, unable to intervene.

The sense of duty that had once driven him—the only thing that had kept him moving forward after the war—felt distant now.

Had he ever truly fulfilled that duty?

Had it ever even mattered?

He should have died in the Coruscant Inferno.

The thought came like an old friend, familiar and - not unwelcome.

He had failed his master, he had failed everyone in his entire life, and the fact that he was still alive felt like some cruel joke.

His gaze drifted to the katana. Then to the lightsaber resting in front of him.

His fingers twitched.

Before he knew it, the hilt had flown into his hand. The blade sprang to life with a violent hiss. For a moment, he couldn't but admire its beauty, the muted greyish-white hues with a subtle violet undertone.

The blade had a will of its own, whispering something he could no longer understand. This blade was his heart, his soul! The Force thrummed through it, raw and untamed, echoing with a feral strength that had once been his. Or perhaps it represented the strength he should have had, the warrior he was supposed to be. But now? Now, it felt distant. Like something slipping from his grasp, as if this integral part of himself was dissolving, too.

His grip tightened. A cruel resolution hardened his features, his lips pressed into a thin line. He angled the blade, and in a swift, fluid motion, brought it up to his throat. He could feel the lightsaber's merciless heat against the skin of his neck. It promised relief and liberation. A sense of calm washed over him.

His breath caught. A memory lit up in his mind - bright blue eyes—pleading…

"You're my best friend. My brother. Don't abandon me!"

And then - another memory. A flash of silver—Nari's piercing gaze, filled with unwavering belief.

"Even ghosts can die, and I cannot lose you."

Kenshin's breath shuddered.

His hand began to tremble. A sharp exhale, ragged, broken.

The blade retracted into its hilt. His hand fell limp, the weapon slipping from his grasp and clattering against the floor.

Something warm, something wet, rolled down his cheek.

He closed his eyes. Another tear. Then another.

And he let them fall.

---

Of course, Nari noticed something was off. She always sensed it, especially when he was trying to conceal it. Outwardly, Kenshin was the same as ever—diligent in his duties, unwavering in his role as Battle Master, endlessly patient and supportive of her training. And yet… he was more distant than usual. More withdrawn. His habitual gruff demeanor had a sharper edge to it. There it was again, this feeling that something deeper lingered within him, something he would never let her in on.

The day of the celebration, she had nothing to do until the evening, so she decided to stop by Kenshin's quarters. Maybe she could annoy him while he got ready—roast him about his fashion sense of a gundark and see how long it took before he threw something at her.

Except when she stepped inside, she found him sprawled on his sleeping mat, still in his old, worn-out pajamas, a datapad in hand. It was past midday, for Force's sake!

Her brows furrowed. "You do know what day it is, right?"

Kenshin didn't look up. "I'm feeling sick. I'm not going."

Sick, huh? If anything, he looked as comfortable and content as a tooka after a good meal. Nari narrowed her eyes. "You have got to be kidding me."

He exhaled, flipping a page on his datapad. "Nari, you know how I feel about social functions."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You hate them. They're exhausting. They're filled with 'self-important morons who like the sound of their own voices.'" She crossed her arms. "That doesn't mean you can just not go."

He gave a noncommittal grunt, still not looking up, and pulled a blanket over his head.

Nari huffed. He was impossible sometimes. It wasn't even about the gala itself—if he had a real reason for skipping, she wouldn't care. But this? This was him retreating, withdrawing from people again.

And she wasn't about to let him get away with it. Just…how?

Sometimes, just sometimes, she wished she could ask an adult for advice. But the adult in question was currently curled up in a nest of blankets, being impossible.

Then it hit her.

Depa Billaba. She was one of the few people who truly understood how Kenshin was wired.

When Nari found her and explained the situation, the Jedi Master considered her for a brief moment before speaking. "You're thinking about this the wrong way," Depa said, a knowing glint in her eyes. "You won't convince him to go for his own sake. But if you remind him that attending is a matter of respect—not to himself, but to his agents—he won't refuse. He would never disrespect them like that."

Nari grinned. Now that… that she could work with.

---

The Senate building's main council hall had been transformed for the evening, its usual stark formality softened into something almost ethereal. Golden chandeliers cast a warm, ambient glow over the vast hall, their light reflecting off towering glass panels that framed the Coruscant skyline. Strands of delicate luminite draped from the balconies, shimmering like captured starlight. Servers in crisp uniforms moved seamlessly between the guests, balancing silver trays laden with Chandrilan wine and exotic delicacies from across the Republic.

A symphony played in the background—a Nabooian ensemble, their instruments weaving elegant, swelling melodies that barely cut through the steady hum of conversation. Senators, diplomats, Jedi, and high-ranking officials mingled in their finest attire, exchanging pleasantries and political maneuvering in equal measure.

At the center of it all stood Vice Chancellor Padmé Amidala, radiant in deep burgundy and gold, the very image of grace as she spoke with a cluster of delegates. Nearby, Anakin Skywalker—dressed in formal Jedi robes that, miraculously, looked properly tailored for once—watched her with an expression that was equal parts pride and barely concealed devotion.

Nari's dress was a masterpiece—crafted from layers of shimmering silver fabric that caught the light with every movement, sequins woven into delicate, swirling patterns like constellations scattered across the night sky. Padmé had enlisted her handmaidens to ensure she looked nothing short of stunning, and they had outdone themselves.

The sleek silhouette hugged her form before flaring slightly at the hem, flowing like liquid starlight when she walked. It was the kind of dress that belonged at a grand ball, a fashion holomagazine, or draped over some highborn noble at a royal court—not on a Jedi Padawan.

The luminous silver perfectly complemented her slate-grey skin, the cool undertones reflecting the soft glow of the chandeliers. Her white-silver hair, typically tied back for practicality, had been styled into intricate waves, framing her face with effortless elegance. And her eyes—normally sharp with mischief or challenge—now glowed with an ethereal, otherworldly brilliance, their argent depths catching every flicker of light.

Even Kenshin had taken one glance at her and greeted her with an acknowledging smirk. "Who are you, and what have you done with my apprentice?" That was as far as he would ever go in complimenting her looks, but she'd take it.

She'd expected to spend the evening stifling yawns and restraining the urge to roll her eyes at pompous senators, but as it turned out, mingling with dignitaries wasn't so bad when she was being showered with compliments. Everyone wanted to meet the young Jedi who had captured Dryden Vos. Everyone wanted to shake her hand, to praise her skill, to tell her how impressive it was that someone so young had played such a crucial role in taking down one of the galaxy's most dangerous crime syndicates.

And she was proud. Even if she had to repeat the same carefully neutral responses over and over—"I only did my part" and "It was a team effort"—she still enjoyed the attention.

Kenshin, however…

At least he was here, that had to count for something. He had, of course, refused to wear traditional Jedi robes. Instead, he had arrived in formal Nantoa attire—flowing pleated trousers secured by an obi, a crisp, sleeveless tunic, and a dark haori jacket embroidered subtly with the sigil of the Ghost. The understated elegance of the ensemble suited him. His hair was styled in an elegant bun, a few strands framing his face which was enigmatically handsome, despite the prominent scars or maybe because of them. He cut a striking, if slightly out-of-place, figure among the gathered Jedi Masters in their ceremonial robes. Despite the elegance of the garment, his posture was one of barely restrained impatience, as if he were mentally counting the seconds until he could leave.

And yet, it didn't stop the senators and high-ranking officials from swarming him. He was no unknown name. His reputation preceded him. The Ghost. The Jedi Battle Master. The man who had designed and led the most successful criminal takedown in recent history.

Each conversation lasted no more than a sentence or two before he expertly diverted their attention elsewhere. Any senator seeking his thoughts on security reform found themselves redirected to Anakin. Any Republic official looking for a statement on the CSIS' future was smoothly pointed toward Padmé. Any Jedi who wanted to discuss his strategic approach was waved off with a polite nod before he casually gestured toward Nari, as if she were the one they should really be speaking to.

At first, she found it amusing.
Then, she found it annoying.

This was his work, his success. And yet, he wanted no part in the recognition.

Kenshin stood at her side, the very picture of composed indifference, his expression a perfect, unreadable mask of detached politeness. And it worked—for the most part. A few particularly persistent senators lingered, attempting to draw him into discussion, but he remained noncommittal, answering only in short, clipped sentences before excusing himself entirely. He was the second-most sought-after person in the room—second only to Padmé herself—and yet, within an hour, he had managed to withdraw from every major conversation, content to stand at the edges of the crowd, nodding along with just enough interest to avoid seeming rude. It wasn't just him being his usual grumpy, socially avoidant self.

Something was off.

This wasn't just reluctance, or exhaustion. It wasn't just a dislike for social functions.

This was something else.

It was the very thing she had felt growing over the past few weeks, —this distance.

---

The sharp crackle of training sabers cut through the air, each impact sending sparks skittering across the smooth dojo floor.

Nari barely had time to think—only react.

Her Master came at her fast. His movements were clean, precise, devastatingly efficient. Every strike, every pivot of his stance was a lesson in controlled power, his footwork seamless, his bladework merciless. The kind of skill only someone who had bled for it could achieve.

She knew him. She knew how he fought.

And yet, she still struggled to keep up.

Nari barely managed to block his next strike before twisting away, her breath coming hard and fast. Her muscles burned, her grip on her saber slick with sweat. She had long since stopped keeping track of how many times they had sparred, how many hours she had poured into these sessions. And never once had she beaten him.

Not even close.

Kenshin wasn't just fast—he was relentless. There was no wasted movement, no hesitation. The duel had started as a lesson, but by now it was something else entirely. Almost real. And if it had been, she had no illusions about how it would end.

Her heart pounded. She gritted her teeth and pushed harder. Faster.

She tried to force him onto the defensive, driving forward in a flurry of strikes. It was hopeless. He was the better fighter.

Then it happened.

She struck high, feinted low, then spun into an overhead slash—and he didn't block.

Her blade was coming down fast, on track to hit—

The Force slammed against her like a wave, halting her strike just millimeters from his head.

Kenshin staggered back, his free hand clutching at the air as if the effort of stopping her blade had cost him something vital. His face contorted with struggle, and pain. Then—

His knees buckled.

The next instant, he was on the ground, completely still. Lifeless.

"Kenshin!"

Nari barely remembered how she got to him. One moment, she was frozen in horror—the next, she was on her knees beside him, shaking his shoulders. "Hey! Hey, wake up! Kenshin!"

Nothing.

Her gut twisted, a sick, horrible panic gripping her chest. His breathing was shallow, his skin pale. A sheen of sweat clung to his face, strands of pitch black hair sticking to his temple.

"What happened?!"

A familiar voice.

She turned her head sharply to see Anakin Skywalker rushing toward them, his blue eyes flashing with worry. He must have been passing by the dojo, must have heard the commotion.

"I don't know!" she burst out. "He just—he just collapsed!"

I'm a healer she thought. I should know what to do!

Anakin didn't waste a second. He knelt beside Kenshin, pressing his fingers to his pulse point. His brow furrowed.

Nari's hands trembled. "We need to get him to the healers" she pressed out.

Anakin nodded, already moving to help lift him. "I have him. Let's go."

---

The sharp scent of antiseptic filled the air, too clean, too sterile. Nari paced at the foot of the cot, arms folded tightly over her chest, her fingers digging into the fabric of her tunic. The rhythmic beep of the monitors did little to settle the gnawing tension in her gut.

He should've woken up by now. The entire night had passed, without any change.

Her mind raced with possibilities, each one worse than the last. Was it his heart? A malfunction of his nervous system? Had he pushed his already battered body too far this time? The thought made her stomach twist.

Across the room, Anakin leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his expression dark. He wasn't pacing like she was, but she knew better—he was just as tense. The set of his jaw, the way his fingers tapped against his sleeve in an erratic rhythm—it all screamed barely contained worry.

The healers had run their tests, checked his vitals, muttered things in that infuriatingly calm way healers always did, then left them waiting. And waiting.

And waiting.

Nari exhaled sharply, forcing herself to sit, only to bounce her leg under the chair. She hated this. This feeling. She could handle a battle, a mission, a crisis. But this? Not knowing? It was unbearable.

Her gaze flicked back to Kenshin. Despite his size, he looked small now… vulnerable. Vulnerable, in a way he never let himself be. Strands of hair, damp with sweat, clung to his forehead. His breathing was steady now, but shallow. Not even a bruise from their fight. And yet he had collapsed.

A soft groan.

Nari was out of her seat before she even registered moving. "Kenshin?"

His brow furrowed slightly. Then, his dark eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, before settling on her.

Nari let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Thank the Force.

Then she smacked his arm.

Not hard, but enough.

"You asshole!" she hissed, her voice sharp with relief. "Do you have any idea how worried we were?!"

Kenshin blinked sluggishly, then turned his head slightly, just now noticing Anakin standing at his bedside.

"...Both of you?"

Anakin let out a breath somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. "Yeah, Kenshin. You scared the hell out of both of us."

Kenshin groaned, closing his eyes again. "Ugh. I should've stayed unconscious."

"Not funny." Nari's voice wavered slightly.

The door hissed open. One of the senior healers stepped in, datapad in hand, her expression calm—but firm. "Good, you're awake."

Kenshin blinked blearily at her. His mind was still sluggish, thoughts swirling like smoke. He felt like hell. His limbs were heavy, his skin clammy, and there was a dull, persistent throb behind his eyes.

"Can someone tell me what the hell happened?"

He didn't understand. He was in the healer's ward. Why? How?
The last thing he remembered, he'd been sparring with Nari. Sure, he had felt off all day, but that wasn't exactly new. He always felt off. He had learned to live with it, to ignore it.

"What's the diagnosis?" Nari cut in impatiently.

The healer barely spared her a glance. "Overexertion."

A heavy silence followed.

Nari blinked. "...You're kidding."

The healer arched a brow, unimpressed. "I rarely joke about medical conditions, Padawan."

Kenshin groaned, rubbing a hand over his face.

Anakin's frown deepened. "But—he's trained harder than this before. Hell, he always trains like this."

The healer exhaled sharply, fingers tightening around the datapad. "And he shouldn't have," she said, her voice edged with something close to exasperation. "This was bound to happen sooner or later. The damage he sustained during the Clone Wars was extensive—his body cannot endure the same level of stress it once did. Ignoring that fact does not make it any less true. And nor does it help," she went on, her tone turning sharp, eyes narrowing at Kenshin, "when he is actively abusing his own resources."

She tapped something on her datapad before looking back up. "Your blood panel tells me everything I need to know." Her gaze went over the screen, reading aloud with growing disapproval. "Infection markers—elevated. Cortisol levels—through the roof. Micronutrient levels—barely measurable." She gave him a pointed look. "Also, there are clear signs of substance abuse. Pain medication is not a staple food, Master Kano!"

Kenshin grimaced.

"All in all," she continued, voice like durasteel, "your body is in a state of profound exhaustion and malnutrition. You are running yourself into the ground. And if you don't stop—" She set the datapad down with an audible clack. "Your body will do it for you."

For a moment, there was silence.

Then—

"I told you!"

The sheer force of Nari's exasperation nearly made Anakin flinch. Kenshin, to his credit, barely reacted—just pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly.

But that only made her angrier.

"You—kriffing—stubborn—idiot!" She threw her hands in the air, pacing at the foot of the cot. "How many times have I told you? How many times have I said you push yourself too hard? That you never stop long enough to actually recover? That you don't listen when I say you look like death warmed over?" She whirled on him, silver eyes blazing. "And every single time, you just shrug it off! Like it's nothing!"

"Nari—"

"NO. No! You do not get to 'Nari' me right now!" She stabbed a finger at him, her voice shaking with frustration. "The healer just confirmed everything I've been saying! You're malnourished! You're running on painkillers! You collapsed in the middle of a sparring session, and you still have the nerve to act like this isn't a big deal?"

Kenshin exhaled through his nose. "I'm fine—"

"You collapsed."

That stopped him.

Her voice was quieter now. But not soft. Not gentle.

"You collapsed, Kenshin," she repeated, each syllable deliberate, cutting through the air like a blade. "That's not fine. That's never fine."

Kenshin looked away. His jaw tightened.

Nari swallowed hard, her hands curling into fists at her sides. "I almost hit you today. You didn't block in time." Her voice cracked, just slightly. "You always block in time."

For a second, she thought she saw something flicker in his expression. Some sliver of understanding. Of guilt. Of something.

But it was gone too fast to tell.

Anakin, who had been silent until now, sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, Kenshin," he said, a rare thread of careful patience in his voice. "You know I'm not exactly a shining example of restraint myself, but—even I know when to slow down. You, though?" He gave a humorless chuckle. "You don't even pretend to take care of yourself."

Kenshin remained quiet.

The healer, apparently deciding she had let them handle the verbal thrashing for long enough, gave a sharp nod. "Glad to see at least some of you have sense," she said dryly, before fixing Kenshin with a look. "Now, if you're done being lectured, Master Kano, I strongly suggest you listen this time. You will rest. You will eat actual food. And you will ease off the painkillers before they stop working entirely and leave you with permanent liver damage."

Another beat of silence.

"…Fine," Kenshin muttered at last.

Nari threw her hands up again. "That's it?! 'Fine'?! You're acting like I just told you to take out the trash. If you don't stop actively trying to die, I swear, I'm going to kill you!"

"Nari."

She huffed. Loudly.

But well, if he was actually going to listen this time, she'd take it. Begrudgingly. For now.

The healers left strict orders for Kenshin to remain in medbay for at least another night, but after a brief—and, to no one's surprise, highly argumentative—exchange, he managed to negotiate his release under the condition that he actually rested. Anakin, ever the traitor, had sided with the healers, shooting Nari a pointed look that all but said Make sure he listens this time.

And so, here they were.

The meditation garden was quiet at this hour, the soft hum of Coruscant's endless cityscape muffled by the enclosing temple walls. A fountain bubbled gently nearby, the scent of flowering vines thick in the air. Kenshin sat cross-legged on a stone bench, his posture loose but his face unreadable, the glittering sunlight catching in his half-closed eyes.

Anakin stood nearby, arms folded, watching him closely—as if expecting him to keel over again at any moment.

Nari sighed. "Alright, I'll be back."

Kenshin arched a brow. "Back?"

"You look like you're one sharp remark away from passing out again, and Anakin looks like he's about to lecture you until you do. I'm getting you guys some caf. And snacks." She tilted her head. "Unless you'd rather sit here and contemplate your admittedly poor life choices on an empty stomach?"

Kenshin exhaled through his nose, something almost amused flickering across his face. "I'm so lucky I have such a considerate padawan! No ration bars."

"Damn. And I was going to grab a whole tray."

She grinned and turned on her heel, leaving before he could think of a proper retort.

Anakin watched her go, then sat down beside Kenshin. A beat of silence passed.

"You really scared her, you know," Anakin murmured.

Kenshin said nothing.

His gaze remained fixed on the blossoms in a nearby flowerbed, watching as the petals trembled in the faint evening breeze. Then, slowly, his fingers wandered into the folds of his robe, brushing against something small and solid.

He hesitated.

I tried to serve. I tried to do what was right. But however hard I try—it's clear that I can't.

I don't have it in me. Not anymore.

What happened on Oba Diah... what happened yesterday…

His grip tightened.

I could have killed one of our own. I could have killed Nari.

The thought sat like a stone in his chest, heavy, suffocating.

He had spent his entire life fighting – and too often failing - to protect others. And now?

I am the danger.

His fingers closed around his CSIS badge.

I'm failing Anakin again… but I can't risk something like Oba Diah ever happening again.

With a quiet sigh, he pulled it from his robes.

He held it out, eyes fixed on his boots.

As if he couldn't bear to look Anakin in the eyes.

Anakin inhaled sharply.

"Kenshin." His voice was quiet. "What are you doing?"

Kenshin still didn't look at him.

I'm so sorry, Anakin.

"I resign," he said quietly. "I'm stepping down from the CSIS."

Anakin inhaled sharply, hands clenching against his knees. "Why?" His tone was careful, but not unreadable. Not to Kenshin.

"I'm not abandoning you," Kenshin said quickly. "I will still serve as Battle Master—or…" his voice turned bitter, "try to, at least." He exhaled sharply, as if the admission cost him something. "But the CSIS missions? I can't. Not anymore." His voice roughened, hoarse around the edges. "It's been too much for a while now. I just didn't want to see it."

His fingers clenched around the badge. For a long moment, he couldn't let go. Then, with a quiet exhale, he forced his hand to open, pressing it into Anakin's palm.

"Oba Diah…" he trailed off, jaw tightening. He looked away. "I'm sorry, Anakin. I know I'm failing you. Again. But what happened there—what happened yesterday—it could happen again." His breath shuddered slightly. "I… lost control. I could have killed one of our own." His voice cracked, barely more than a whisper now. "I could have killed her."

A muscle twitched in Anakin's jaw.

Kenshin swallowed, hard.

"Something in me… something shattered," he admitted. "I shattered."

He exhaled, shaky.

"I don't have that kind of strength anymore." He hesitated. "I haven't felt okay for a long time. The damage I took in the Clone Wars… it runs too deep. I… I can't keep doing this."

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence.

"Kenshin."

Anakin's voice was firm. Quiet. Unshaken.

"You don't need to explain."

Kenshin froze.

Anakin shook his head, a small, lopsided smile tugging at his lips. "It's okay."

Something flickered in Kenshin's expression—something fragile, something raw.

"You mean that?" he rasped.

Anakin scoffed, shaking his head. "Of course I do. You're not disappointing me, Kenshin. You're not failing me! You never could!"

He let out a breath, something lighter, something real.

"You're my best friend. First and before all, I'm just grateful you survived the Coruscant Inferno. That you chose to stay. To fight. Even when it was hard."

Kenshin's throat bobbed slightly. He didn't speak.

"And after that," Anakin continued, "you helped me build the CSIS. You helped take down the major crime syndicates. You fought alongside me to make a real difference." His voice softened. "That was already more than I ever could have asked for. You know, ever since I learned that Padmé was pregnant, and then when Leia and Luke were born…my greatest dream has been to build a galaxy that is safe, and free, where they could truly thrive. You helped me to make that dream real, Kenshin!"

Kenshin still didn't look convinced. His hands were tense in his lap, curled into loose fists.

Anakin sighed. "Listen to me."

His tone left no room for argument.

"You've done enough."

For the first time, Kenshin's expression shifted.

A slow inhale.

The tension in his shoulders eased—just barely.

Then—footsteps.

Both turned as Nari's voice cut through the silence. "Okay, what happened?"

Kenshin glanced at her, hesitated. Then, he exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "I just realized that sometimes I should listen to my Padawan."

Nari narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "...Obviously. It only took you, what, six years? If I were to keep record of all the times I've been right, I'd run out of data space in a week!"

Kenshin shot her a dry look. "Don't push it, Sparkplug."

She smirked, but it faded quickly. "No, seriously—what are you talking about?"

His lips twitched. Just barely. "A promise I made a few years ago. One I never kept."

Nari blinked, her brow furrowing. "What promise?"

Kenshin didn't answer immediately. He took a slow sip of caf, letting the moment hang between them, watching her over the rim of his mug with unreadable dark eyes.

Then, finally—casually, like it was nothing—he said, "You've got a good two months before your big project starts. Until then, we could go look at some fire leaf trees and ancient rocks."

For a full second, Nari just stared at him, completely still. Then—

"You serious?!" She nearly dropped the tray of food in her hands, her silver eyes going wide with excitement. "We'll go to Nanta?"

Kenshin gave a slow nod, as if he hadn't just turned her entire day upside down.

Nari let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "Oh, Master, you have no idea how much I'm going to make you regret this decision."

Kenshin sighed, rubbing his temple. "I already do..."

"No, you don't." She grinned. "You love my company."

"Remind me why I agreed to this again?"

"Because I'm your favorite!"

Kenshin muttered something under his breath in his native tongue, but the ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Nari beamed, already planning just how much of a menace she was going to be for the entirety of their trip.