First Reply Credits Run Like Blood.

[Serina Calis]

Credits Run Like Blood.
Location: ???
Objective: Establish a Deal.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: [LOOKING FOR MERCENARIES/UNDERWORLD TYPES]

"Power is not seized in grand battles or dramatic gestures. It is earned in moments like these—in the waiting, in the silence, in the careful arrangement of pieces before the board is even set. Let them believe they have a choice. Let them think they hold the cards. By the time they sit across from me, the deal is already made."​

The bar smelled of sweat, old spice, and the acrid burn of cheap fuel from the refinery yards beyond its rusted walls. Dim lighting barely cut through the smoke-heavy air, its flickering presence casting shadows that danced over the warped wooden tables and cracked durasteel flooring. A place where people came to forget things, Serina thought, her fingers tracing the rim of an untouched glass.

She sat in a corner booth, back to the wall, where the dim glow of a sputtering neon sign reflected off the polished leather of her glove. The air was thick with voices, low and murmured, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter from men who had already forgotten how short their lifespans were. The patrons here were miners, mechanics, off-duty enforcers—the beating heart of Sullust's underbelly.

She had dressed for the occasion. Nothing ostentatious, nothing that drew too many eyes. A dark, high-collared coat over fitted attire, subtly embroidered with a pattern only visible under the right light—power, but understated. No insignias, no obvious markings. Her dagger was hidden, strapped against the small of her back, beneath the coat's folds. She was no Dark Jedi here. Not yet.

A battered old holo-terminal hummed in the background, crackling through distorted audio as some off-world newsfeed played on repeat. "—SoroSuub operations disrupted due to—" The bartender silenced it with a well-placed smack of his fist, then went back to polishing a dented glass with a cloth that looked dirtier than the counter itself.

Serina inhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders back as she glanced toward the entrance. They were late.

Not long enough to be disrespectful. Just long enough to establish control.

She exhaled softly through her nose, tapping a single finger against the side of her glass. A test, then. These sorts always tested her, even if they didn't realize it. Mercenaries, smugglers, killers-for-hire. Their kind had an instinct for power. They could sense who was in charge—but they also needed proof.

She would give it to them when the time was right.

For now, she waited.

The bartender approached her table with a grunt, placing a fresh drink before her without asking. "On the house," he said, nodding toward a Trandoshan at the bar, a hulking brute with faded scars and a missing eye. He lifted his own glass in her direction, studying her with the dull amusement of a predator watching something it wasn't sure was prey yet.

She did not return the gesture.

Instead, she picked up the drink, twirling the liquid absently in the glass. Let him wonder. Let him wait.

Everything in this room, everyone, was just a piece in the larger game she was playing. Some would prove useful. Others would be discarded.

Outside, the rain began to fall, soft at first, then steadily heavier, hammering against the metal roof in a dull, rhythmic patter.

Still, she waited.

And when they finally arrived, they would find her exactly as she was now—calm, composed, and already three steps ahead.