A/N: So my patreon got banned again...this time for the crime of them finding link to previous account that was banned...I am kinda hyperventilating right now.
Apologies to all patrons for the disturbance(more like earthquake tbh).
I have appealed to patreon regarding this but I don't know when I would get reply, or if previous account can even be unterminated.
Well good news for you guys, i had backed up the chapters so it won't be like my previous book where I had to shelve the series. (Except the next chapter, which I had written in another device. I will have to have to see where I can recover that.
Bad news for me, unwithdrawed $400 is likely to be gone. It would be refunded back to the patrons, atleast that happened when patreon said last time when that decide there is no way they are going to reinstate the account.
Let's see what happens. Maybe I would have to start a new account on patreon after getting their approval on the book.
(T_T)(T_T)(T_T)(T_T)
___
Vasha's voice cut through the apartment, already in go mode. "Ezra, shirt. Now. Client's gonna think I'm babysitting a feral loth-cat if you show up like that."
I glanced down. Pants on, shirt right there on the chair. But sure, I was the problem. "You know what?" Caf in hand, I flopped back onto the couch. "Go without me."
Silence. Then her face appeared around the corner, eyebrows up. "Seriously?"
"Seriously." The words came out easier than I expected. Two months of paranoia, of rigging the apartment like a warzone, of jumping at shadows—and for what? Nothing. No inquisitors, no ambushes, no visions. Just… life. "It's another shipping gig. You've handled worse blindfolded."
She stared at me, like she was waiting for the punchline. Or for me to bolt after her the second the door shut.
I didn't.
A slow smirk tugged at her mouth. "Alright. Try not to burn the place down."
"Can't promise that."
She grabbed her toolkit, then paused, patting her pockets. A flicker of habit—check the weapons, check the exits—ran through me before I shoved it down. Stop it. She's fine.
Vasha pulled out the multi-tool I'd modded for her, thumbing the shock function with practiced ease. "Y'know, this thing's kinda grown on me."
"Told you it would."
"Still haven't zapped anyone." She clipped it to her belt, grinning. "Might start with you if you mess with my tools."
I rolled my eyes. "Wouldn't dare."
She ducked into the kitchen, still talking. "Left food in the cooler. Meat wraps, protein bars, some fruit that's probably not moldy yet—"
"I'll survive."
"—and message me if you want anything else." She reappeared, pointing at me. "Even if it's just to whine about being bored."
"I'll be fine, Vash."
"I know." But she hovered anyway, hand on the doorframe. "Just… call if anything feels off. Anything."
There it was. The old tension, the unspoken what if. Two months ago, I'd have latched onto it. Now? I just nodded. "Promise."
Her shoulders relaxed. "Back soon." The door hissed shut behind her, her boots thumping down the hall.
Silence.
I exhaled, slumping into the couch. No visions. No dread. Just… quiet.
See? I told myself, caf warming my hands. You were being an idiot.
The apartment felt too big without her in it.
___
I settled back into the couch with my caf, feeling lighter than I had in months.
This was good. Normal. The kind of ordinary morning that people who weren't paranoid disasters took for granted.
No premonitions crawling up my spine. No invisible countdown timer. No dreams of Vasha bleeding out in some alley while I sat useless half a city away. Just me, decent caf, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing I'd finally—finally—stopped being the guy who booby-trapped his own workshop.
Two months. Two months since the visions stopped. Two months of slowly dismantling the gauss gun I'd built, of removing trip wires from doorways, of not checking every shadow for red lightsabers.
God, I'd been such an idiot.
I pulled up a technical manual on my datapad—hyperdrive cooling systems, the kind of boring shit that would've sent me spiraling into what-if scenarios before. What if an Inquisitor tracked our parts orders? What if the Empire noticed patterns in our repair jobs?
Now it was just... reading. Normal reading about normal tech for normal people who didn't hide credit stashes across the city like some kind of doomsday prepper.
The workshop hummed around me. Familiar sounds—machinery on standby, air circulation, the neighbor's kid practicing whatever instrument that was supposed to be. Peaceful. Real.
An hour passed without me really noticing. Got absorbed in plasma flow regulation—actually interesting when you weren't using it as a distraction from imagining every possible way your... whatever Vasha was to me... could die.
Foster sister? Guardian? Mom? The woman who walked around half-naked after showers and made my just nearly teenage body short-circuit while my twenty-seven-year-old brain screamed about inappropriate feelings?
Yeah. That.
My stomach growled. Right, food. The protein bars she'd mentioned—because of course she'd prepped snacks, like I was actually ten and couldn't feed myself.
I padded to the kitchen, grabbed one of the good ones with nuts, and checked the chronometer. Just over an hour since she'd left. Probably still in the consultation phase, doing her thorough Vasha thing where she'd diagnose problems the client didn't even know they had.
I shot her a message: Found the protein bars. The good ones with the nuts. You're forgiven for all past crimes.
Went back to reading.
Another hour crawled by. The manual was starting to blur together—coolant dynamics only stayed interesting for so long. I switched to news feeds, scrolling through the usual Imperial propaganda mixed with local commerce reports.
Nothing from Vasha.
That was... fine. Client meetings ran long. Shipping contractors loved to talk, loved to explain their problems like they were unique and special instead of the same dozen issues everyone had. And Vasha was good at the people part—she'd listen, nod, make them feel heard.
Two and a half hours now.
I sent another message: Meeting running long? No rush, just checking in.
The chronometer kept ticking. I tried focusing on the news, but my eyes kept drifting to the comm panel. Dark. Silent.
She'd said a couple hours. But "couple" was flexible, right? Could mean two, could mean three, could mean however long it took to make the client happy.
I got up, did a circuit of the workshop. Checked projects that didn't need checking. Organized tools that were already organized. The kind of busywork I'd done two months ago while waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the vision to come true, for—
Stop it. You're being paranoid again.
Three hours.
Third message: Starting to worry. Everything okay?
The silence felt different now. Heavier.
But there were explanations. Good, normal explanations. Comm malfunction. Dead zone in the warehouse district—those old buildings had shit signal penetration. Or she was deep in negotiations, couldn't break away to answer.
All perfectly reasonable.
I made another cup of caf even though my hands had developed this slight tremor that definitely wasn't caffeine-related.
Three and a half hours.
This was still probably fine. Shipping contractors ran whole operations out of converted warehouses. Tours could take forever. And Vasha would play along, build rapport, make sure they felt valued.
She was probably on her way back right now. Probably had stories about whatever overcomplicated mess this guy was running.
Four hours.
Another message: Vasha, please just let me know you're okay. Quick 'all good' would be fine.
My finger hovered over send for too long. This was the kind of message I would've sent two months ago, back when I was seeing threats everywhere. Back when I was the problem.
But I sent it anyway.
The workshop felt wrong now. Too quiet. The familiar hum of machinery that had been comforting an hour ago now seemed to echo off walls that suddenly felt too large, too empty.
Four and a half hours.
This wasn't normal. This wasn't a chatty client or a facility tour or a dead zone.
Something was wrong.
No. No, I was doing it again. Jumping to conclusions, seeing patterns that weren't there, creating disasters out of nothing. Just like before. Just like always.
Except before, I'd had visions. Actual Force visions that had sent me into panic mode. This was just... a meeting running long.
But four and a half hours long?
I called her directly instead of messaging. Listened to the soft chime as the system tried to connect.
Nothing. Not even a ring. Just... nothing.
I tried again. Then again. My fingers were definitely shaking now as I input her comm code for the fourth time, slower, careful, making sure I had it right.
Still nothing.
The comm wouldn't even try to connect. Like it didn't exist. Like she didn't exist.
My chest felt tight. That old familiar pressure building behind my ribs, the one I'd spent two months learning to ignore because it was just paranoia, just my brain creating problems that weren't there.
Think. Think logically.
The client. I could call the client.
It took me too long to find the contact info—my fingers kept missing keys as I searched through Vasha's notes. Corex Logistics. Manager Jeph Kozlo. Downtown warehouse district.
The holo flickered to life showing a weathered-looking human, clearly annoyed at being interrupted.
"Corex Logistics, this is Kozlo."
"Hi, this is Ezra Bridger. I'm calling about the appointment today? With our technician, Vasha Syndri? She should have met with you about nav computer issues—"
"What appointment?" His irritation shifted to confusion. "We don't have any nav computer issues. Haven't scheduled any appointments today either."
The world tilted.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Look, kid, I don't know what you're talking about. We haven't contacted anyone about tech repairs in weeks. Our systems are running fine."
My mouth moved without sound. The cold was spreading faster now, creeping into my thoughts.
"But you called yesterday. About a consultation. You specifically requested today—"
"Kid, I've been here all morning, and I can tell you for certain nobody from my company contacted you about anything. You sure you have the right business?"
"Could you... could you double-check? Maybe someone else—"
"I'm the only one authorized to contract outside tech support. Like I said, our systems are fine. Wrong company, kid."
The connection terminated.
I stared at the empty hologram projector.
My hands. Why were my hands shaking?
I pulled up yesterday's message thread. Scrolled through the conversation. Contact information, job description, meeting time, location—
All there. All documented. All...
All fake.
No no no no no—
Where is she where is she WHERE IS SHE
I was on my feet without remembering standing up. The datapad clattered to the floor.
Think think THINK—
But I couldn't think. My brain was just noise, static, a thousand possibilities crashing into each other at once.
Inquisitors. Had to be Inquisitors. They'd found us somehow, tracked us down, set up an elaborate trap—
But why take her? Why not come for me directly? Unless they needed leverage. Unless they wanted to force me to surrender. But was there even any need for it!?
My breathing was getting shallow. Fast. The walls felt closer than they had a minute ago.
She's fine she has to be fine this is just a misunderstanding a coincidence maybe she went somewhere else maybe—
But the fake client. The fake meeting. Someone had researched our business, knew our patterns, knew exactly how to lure her out.
Someone had been watching us.
How long? How LONG have they been watching?
All those preparations. All those contingencies. Weapons, traps, escape routes, credits stashed across the city. Two months of paranoid planning, turning our home into a fortress, mapping every exit, cataloging every threat—
And I'd sent her out alone.
You let her go you FUCKING let her go after everything after all the planning all the preparation you just—
The multi-tool. She had the multi-tool with the shock function. But what good was that against professional kidnappers? Against Inquisitors with lightsabers and Force powers and—
Stop it STOP thinking about what they can do focus on—
On what? What could I focus on? I had no idea where they'd taken her. No leads. No trail to follow.
Think where would they take her what would they want—
Information. About me. About what I could do. My real identity. The rebel cell I used to run with. Names, locations, operational details.
Or leverage—take her to force me to comply. Turn myself in. Come quietly.
Which meant she was still alive. Had to be. No point in taking her if they just wanted her dead. They'd have killed us both, made it look like an accident, covered their tracks.
She's alive she's ALIVE she has to be—
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely operate the comm interface. Had to try three times to access the message metadata.
Routing information showed... nothing useful. Public terminal, downtown commercial district. Could have been sent by anyone.
Of course. Of course they wouldn't be that sloppy. Professional operation, professional planning, professional—
Another horrific possibility came to my mind despite my unwillingness to even think in that general direction.
What if they're torturing her right now what if they're—
I slumped against the workbench, head in my hands.
Two months. Two months of preparing for this exact scenario. Contingency plans for Imperial raids, Inquisitor attacks, bounty hunter ambushes. I'd thought of everything.
Except this.
I'd planned for them coming to us, not for them taking her away from me. All my traps and weapons and escape routes were here, in our home, useless now that she was gone.
You got comfortable. Got lazy. Convinced yourself it was over.
The visions had stopped. The premonitions, the nightmares, the constant sense of impending doom... And I'd thought that meant we were safe.
But what if it hadn't faded? What if I'd just stopped paying attention? Stopped listening to the warnings because I wanted so badly to believe we could have a normal life?
What if the Force was trying to warn you and you just IGNORED it?
All those mornings she'd made me caf. All those evenings working side by side in the shop. All those moments of quiet domesticity that felt too good to be true.
Because they were too good to be true.
She's out there somewhere scared hurt maybe dying and you're just STANDING HERE—
Maybe I should just run. Hit the city, check every warehouse, every abandoned building, every place they might be holding her. At least that would be DOING something instead of standing here paralyzed by—
By what? Fear? Panic? The overwhelming realization that all my careful planning meant nothing because I'd failed at the most basic level?
I was supposed to protect her. That was the whole point of everything—the weapons, the traps, the contingencies. Keep Vasha safe.
And the first time she really needed protecting, I wasn't there.
I felt something burning in my heart, the panic slowly giving way to a feeling of rage that I had never felt before. An hatred burning its marks onto my soul. All for myself.
For my useless fucking self.
But it wasn't the time. No. My penance can wait, my loathing can wait.
She needs me.
Vasha needs me.
And I wasn't going to disappoint her, not again.
I didn't know the how or why. I just knew that for the first time since I landed on this godforsaken rock, I wanted to tear it open and take back what it stole.
To tear this city apart if I have to.
Until I see her again.
---
A/N: Both me and Ezra are shocked and bamboozled lol