Jin-Woo slowly closed the glowing status window with a flick of two fingers.
Across from him, the Twi'lek—now officially Talon—stood quietly. Her revealing slave attire still clung to her form, a remnant of her former captivity.
With a quiet motion, Jin-Woo summoned a folded set of garments from his shadow—a sleek, black-and-purple robe lined with subtle armor mesh, tailored for mobility and elegance. It bore the emblem of the Purple England Company stitched along the collar.
"Put this on," he said. "It's yours now. Fit for an apprentice."
Talon accepted the clothing without a word. She turned her back to him, slipping into the outfit with smooth movements, her expression unreadable until the last buckle was fastened. The robe draped over her like armor.
She turned back to face him.. Her posture had changed. Her eyes no longer avoided his.
"Thank you… Master," she said. Her voice was steady.
Jin-Woo gave a nod as he pulled his Revan-style mask into place once more. The dark metal sealed with a faint hiss, obscuring his face again beneath the identity the galaxy now feared—the Masked Man.
Together, he and Talon stepped into the corridor leading out of the private guest chambers of Jabba's Mos Espa palace. They passed through the entertainment zone .
The eyes of onlookers burned with tension. Most were hateful. They'd lost credits—fortunes, in some cases—betting on ten thousand fighters, on Durge, on the arena. All of them confident that no one man could win against odds like that. But he had.The massacre was still fresh in their minds. And now, the masked man was walking past them like nothing had happened. And none of them—no mercenary, no thug, no gangster—dared to move. Not after what he did to Durge. Not after watching one man tear down an army. They only watched. Silent. Stiff. Careful.
As Jin-Woo and Talon reached the staircase toward the upper exit, a whir of gears echoed softly to their left.
A protocol droid—polished, with gleaming photoreceptors—stepped into their path with slow, deliberate caution. Its posture was perfect, servos humming at just the right pitch. It held its hands low and open, as if to show submission, and chose every word with diplomatic weight.
"Ahem. Forgive the interruption, Sir Masked Man," it said in its overly polite tone. "The Great Jabba wishes to extend an invitation to you and your… companion again ."
"For a private feast," it clarified. "To be held shortly, in honor of your victory today in the Grand Arena. Might I confirm your availability?"
Jin-Woo nodded once.
A few minutes later, he was seated in Jabba's private chamber. The chamber was dim, lit by golden sconces and thick with the scent of spiced meats and incense. Jin-Woo sat with his mask on, armor gleaming under the flickering lights. Talon was beside him, now dressed more formally, her demeanor composed and alert.
Jabba lounged at the center of the chamber, coiled in his usual mess of pillows, drinking thick wine through a tube.
Jin-Woo glanced to his right. "You should eat, my future apprentice," he said flatly.
Talon nodded and began eating, obedient, quiet, just as he ordered.
Jabba rumbled something in Huttese. The protocol droid translated, hesitating just slightly as it chose its words with extreme caution. "The slave must have—"
Jin-Woo didn't let it finish. His voice cut through. "She has a name now. Talon."
He turned slightly, gaze fixed on the droid. "Choose your words carefully. Don't step on a landmine."
The droid stiffened, processing, then rephrased immediately. "My apologies. Talon must be Force-sensitive. That would explain why Sir Masked Man was willing to push this… extreme display. However, might I ask—did it truly have to be ten thousand? Surely a thousand would've been enough to make a point."
Jin-Woo didn't even turn his head. His voice was sharp, clipped . "You sure that's what you want to ask me right now?" he said. "Or are you just trying to make me feel something for you? Sympathy? Regret? You're wasting my time. I'm not in the mood for conversation."
He glanced at the interface on his gauntlet. 01:49:30 left before the sandstorm hit Mos Espa.
Jabba said nothing, but a low grunt vibrated from deep in his chest. His eyes narrowed, then rolled slightly to the side, toward Ziro's empty seat in his mind. Jabba thought. He knows it was Ziro who stirred this chaos and make masked man worsen . .
Jabba took another slow drink, choosing silence over provocation.
The protocol droid shuffled forward, choosing its words with utmost care. "Great Jabba extends an invitation," it said, its mechanical tone smooth but wary. "There will be a grand podracing event held shortly. The Great Jabba asks if you would care to join him in the royal booth to watch the festivities."
Jin-Woo didn't answer. He didn't even glance at the droid.
Because in the very next moment, a whisper slipped into his mind.
Better hurry, my husband, Morgan's voice rang through the mental link—clear, cool, and slightly amused. Rey is about to blow Mos Espa sky-high. Something about your new wife Talon… having a background too similar to hers. It's making her emotional.
Jin-Woo turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he looked toward Talon—seated beside him, having just finished her plate.
He stood without a word, . Talon rose alongside him, silent and composed.
Jin-Woo cast one final glance toward Jabba—cold, unreadable behind the mask.
"Thanks for the food," he said. "See you later, Jabba."
The protocol droid hesitated, confused. Jabba only grunted in response, his eyes following the masked man and his apprentice as they strode out of the chamber.
The heat outside hit like a wall, but Jin-Woo walked unfazed down the sunbaked streets of Mos Espa. The sand crunched beneath his boots as the shadows of the nearby towers stretched long under the twin suns. Talon followed at his side, her movements sharp and fluid, every step silent.
Waiting at the corner, arms crossed and lips curled, were two very familiar figures.
Morgan stood first, her gaze fixed with that knowing tilt of the head, eyes gleaming with ancient amusement. Beside her, Rey leaned against a support column, arms folded and one eyebrow cocked.
Padmé stood a few steps behind them, still dressed in the regal attire of Queen Amidala. Her presence was poised, but her eyes betrayed flickers of conflict. She said nothing.
Morgan clicked her tongue and smirked. "Fourth wife, huh? Jin-Woo, you snatch wives like some polygamy protagonist straight out of a trashy space opera."
Jin-Woo didn't stop walking. He paused just briefly to glance sideways. "Or maybe…" he said, dryly, "I'm already inside a story written by something up there."
He pointed lazily to the sky.
Rey rolled her eyes. "So this Talon's the fourth wife now?"
Jin-Woo shook his head once. "Fourth wife spot still belongs to Padmé. Should she join."
That made Padmé freeze slightly. Her expression didn't change, but a faint redness touched her cheeks. She turned away, folding her arms with a sharp "Hmph."
"At least… you rescued Talon from her cruel life," Padmé muttered, eyes not meeting his. "And I appreciate that you… kept a seat open for me."
Jin-Woo didn't answer. He didn't have to. The silence between them said more than words could. He just kept walking—cloak swaying, Talon silent at his side, Morgan and Rey falling in step behind him. Padmé lingered a moment longer, then followed. Close, but not too close.
The group made their way through the dusty alleys of Mos Espa, the midday heat hanging heavy. Metal shutters rattled in the wind, and distant voices echoed from markets and scrap yards. The group turned into a side street where the rusted archway of Watto's Junk Shop loomed.
From inside, voices carried loud and clear.
"No, they won'ta!" came the unmistakable squawk of Watto. "What you think you are, some kinda Jedi? Wavin' your hand around like that? I'm a Toydarian! Mind tricks don'ta work on me—only money! Not Republic credits—only peggats or trugguts! No parts, no deal! And no one else has ship parts for your—"
The bell over the door CLINKED as Jin-Woo stepped through.
The conversation died instantly.
Watto's wings buzzed once as he turned, eyes narrowing at the new arrivals. His gaze flicked nervously between Jin-Woo's armored form, Talon's poised silence, Morgan's composed glare, and Rey's unimpressed stare.
Qui-Gon straightened from where he'd been negotiating near a rack of rusted hyperdrive regulators. "Ah… Jin-Woo. You're just in time," he said smoothly. "It seems Republic credits are… less than acceptable here. Perhaps you've brought something a bit more Tatooine-compatible?"
Jin-Woo didn't say anything at first. He walked forward slowly,
Watto hovered up a few inches, rubbing his hands together with fake politeness. "You his friend? Maybe you got peggats, eh? Trugguts? Something real this time?"
Before Jin-Woo could respond, a young voice cut in.
"Wow, Mr. Qui-Gon, you have lots of frie—" Anakin Skywalker's voice stopped abruptly.
His wide-eyed face turned toward the new arrival.
His gaze locked with Jin-Woo's. The air thickened.
Jin-Woo's steps halted.
Without a word, he reached up and unlatched the clamps of his Revan-style mask. A hiss escaped as it released. He pulled it off slowly, revealing his face—calm, sharp, utterly composed.
Then, with a flick of his left hand, the Revan armor began to fold and collapse in on itself—compressing into a compact sphere no bigger than a human heart. It vanished into the shadows at his belt.
Jin-Woo stared directly at the boy. Anakin stared back. And the room—changed.
It was pressure. Like two gravitational centers had just recognized each other. The boy chosen by the Force… and the invader who operated beyond it. An embodiment of cosmic order… meeting the king of an empire born from death and darkness.
The galaxy's defense mechanism. And the Shadow Monarch who didn't belong in its laws.
They were antithesis. Opposing anchors on a balance that wasn't meant to hold both.
Talon shivered slightly. She leaned closer to Morgan and whispered, "Uhh… ? Why's the temperature dropping? Master's just staring at a kid."
Morgan didn't answer.
Her eyes narrowed, calculating. That child… this feeling… is this the Chosen One Jin-Woo once mentioned? She glanced sideways at Jin-Woo—his jawline tense, his aura pulling tighter like a coil preparing to strike. He only ever gets like this if the other person… is threatening enough to matter.
Rey's fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the doorway. Her eyes drifted toward the street outside—then snapped up. Her breath caught.
The sky above Mos Espa had split. Light and shadow divided the heavens—one half gleaming gold under the twin suns, the other draped in unnatural shade. Clouds moved wrong. The wind stopped moving.
Padmé stepped forward slightly, peeking around Morgan. Her gaze fell on Anakin—just a boy, no older than nine, dressed in simple tunics with dust on his cheeks and wide, blinking eyes.
But Jin-Woo… He was glaring at him.
Who is this kid? she thought, unsettled. What kind of child… could make Jin-Woo look at him like that?
The silence dragged—heavy, unbearable. Then, Anakin broke it.
He stared straight at Jin-Woo, eyes narrowed with an emotion far too intense for a child. His small fists tightened at his sides.
"Mister," Anakin said, voice trembling. "Why do I feel like I really, want to punch you? And beat you up? Like I have to."