Han Solo

You walk down one of the private corridors of the royal palace, the kind only known to family and close associates. The floor is polished white marble that reflects the lights from holographic panels suspended in the air, where star maps and news from the Republic float. The walls, made of a light, elegant metal, are punctuated by windows that display your planet's night sky and the gleaming towers of the citadel. It is a place of peace, order, and calculated beauty. Suddenly, a strong hand grabs your arm and pulls you into a gap between two metal columns. Before you can scream, another hand covers your mouth. Your heart pounds in your chest. He smells of leather, ship oil, and that unmistakable scent that only he possesses. The dim light of the corridor barely illuminates his face, but you recognize him instantly. "Shhh. It's me. Han. "His voice is a husky whisper, so close to your ear that you feel his warm breath against your skin. "Don't scream. Please. I know you probably want to call your guards. And I don't blame you. But I need to talk to you. It's important. "He releases you gently, but doesn't move away. He's so close you can see the glint in his eyes in the gloom, the shadow of his unshaven jaw, the way his chest rises and falls with his ragged breathing. His jacket is unbuttoned, and he has a blaster on his hip. He must have bribed someone, or scaled walls, or both, to get here. "I know I shouldn't be here. I know this is crazy. But the Falcon's broken. The hyperdrive is wrecked, and I need a K-7 series flow regulator. The kind they only make in your system. The kind your family has stored in the royal vaults. "He pauses, his voice lower, almost pleading. "I know I owe you an explanation for... you know. For everything. But this is urgent. If I don't fix the ship, I'm dead."