The offer was tempting in its way. A crime syndicate creeping into the folds of Tythas City’s reconstruction, embedding itself in the newly expanded trade routes and spaceport of New Tythas. Their proposal was simple: in exchange for Sunrider’s passive acceptance, they would keep the city clean—efficiently, ruthlessly. Jovian knew what that meant. People would disappear. Not just criminals, enemies, anyone who got in the way.

He sat at the edge of a transparent walkway in Ashla’s Tears Amphitheatre, the ocean shifting in the depths below him. The city had been built for survival, beauty, and progress, but beneath the shimmering lights of New Tythas, there was always darkness waiting to seep in. The Rift and the Abyssal Depths were already prime locations for smuggling and secret dealings. This syndicate was making the inevitable official.

Dale’s voice cut through the quiet. “We could take them out now. Call in favours. You know we have people.”

Jovian considered the weight of the decision. Dale was the blunt instrument in their circle, always ready to fight when words failed. Sitting beside him, Isla was more thoughtful, her gaze flicking between the shimmering amphitheatre and Jovian’s impassive expression.

“If we refuse,” Isla murmured, “we open the city to war. Blood in the streets, assassinations, chaos in the Rift. I don’t like the alternative, but turning them down outright means we need to be ready to fight for control.”

Jovian leaned back, exhaling. His mind flashed to the horrors they had survived together, the ghostly presence of the witch still lingering in his memory. He had learned that control was an illusion. Yet, in Tythas City, control meant survival. Letting the syndicate operate under their own rules was out of the question.

“We don’t fight them,” Jovian finally said, ignoring Dale’s sharp look. “Not yet.”

“You’re not making a deal with them,” Dale snapped. “Tell me you’re not seriously considering this.”

Jovian met his gaze. “Not in the way they want.”

Isla nodded slowly, realization dawning. “We play along. We set them up.”

The plan began to take shape in his mind. They would let the syndicate believe they had Sunrider’s cooperation, let them move their pieces into place, and grow comfortable in their supposed security. Then, when they least expected it, Jovian and his allies would dismantle them. Publicly. Loudly. He would let them implicate themselves, weave themselves too deep into Tythas City’s infrastructure, and then pull the rug out from under them.

“This has to be clean,” Isla said. “We can’t let them turn this back on us. No loose ends.”

Jovian nodded. “We make them overreach. Then we burn them.”

Dale exhaled, shaking his head. “It’s risky.”

“So is war,” Jovian replied. “And I’m not letting this city fall to them.”

The decision was made. They would betray the syndicate, turning their greed and ambition against them. It was a gamble, but one that had to be taken. Because if Tythas City was going to remain a jewel of Daleem, it needed to be protected—not by criminals, but by those willing to fight for it.

The next few weeks would be crucial. Jovian moved carefully, meeting with key officials, planting whispers of distrust. The syndicate’s operations in The Rift were noted, logged, and strategically leaked. A shipment of illicit weapons meant for the syndicate suddenly vanished and rerouted to Sunrider’s forces. Street informants murmured of betrayal within their ranks.

At night, Jovian walked the pathways of New Tythas, the glow of the Terraformer casting eerie shadows against the water. He could feel the tension shifting, the undercurrents of impending violence thick in the air. The syndicate was growing suspicious, their men doubling security. Dale had his hand on the pulse, watching their movements, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Then, the first killing happened. A high-ranking syndicate enforcer was found dead, his throat slit, body dumped near The Lily Pad transfer station. It wasn’t their doing, but the timing was perfect. The paranoia began to fester within the syndicate. They started turning on their own. Isla made sure that the whispers of disloyalty reached the right ears. The infighting escalated. By the time Jovian was ready to make his final move, the syndicate had already torn itself apart.

The night the trap was sprung, Jovian stood on the upper levels of New Tythas, watching as the city’s security forces—armed with the information he had fed them—stormed a syndicate stronghold in the Abyssal Depths. Explosions rocked the lower districts. Gunfire echoed through the tunnels. The syndicate leaders were dragged into the light, their crimes exposed before they could silence anyone else.

Jovian exhaled, watching the city below. The battle was won, but he knew there would always be another threat lurking beneath the waves. Still, for now, Tythas City remained theirs.

The tension in The Rift was suffocating. The air, thick with the brine of the deep sea and the sweat of too many bodies packed into the district’s narrow, winding corridors, carried an undercurrent of rage. The displaced workers and former militia from Kiast were no longer just frustrated—they were furious.

Jovian moved through the sector like a ghost, his cloak pulled tight, hood casting deep shadows over his face. He had been sent to investigate the rapidly escalating protests, but he already knew the truth. Movements like this didn’t explode overnight. Someone had struck a match, and now the fire was spreading.

The streets of The Rift, always dimly lit, now flickered with the glow of makeshift torches and scavenged floodlights. Banners hung from the metal catwalks overhead, their slogans scrawled in jagged, desperate strokes. Justice. Fair wages. No more squalor.

From a high platform, Jovian watched as a speaker roused the growing crowd below. A former militia captain, by the look of him—weathered, resolute, eyes burning with conviction.

“They live in their towers above us,” the man bellowed, voice raw with passion. “They feast while we struggle to breathe their cast-off air! We built this city. We maintain it. And what do we get? Squalor! Rot! They smile down on us, toss scraps, and expect gratitude! We demand justice!”

The crowd roared, fists raised, bodies pressing closer. But beyond the fervor, Jovian caught glimpses of uncertainty—furtive glances, hesitant postures. Not all of them were ready to step off the precipice into full-blown chaos.

Jovian exhaled slowly, pressing his back against the cold metal wall. He had seen this before. The suffering was real, the anger justified—but someone had shaped it, sharpened it into a weapon. He needed to find out who.

The next night, he found his answer.

Slipping into an abandoned storehouse near the old cargo tunnels, Jovian moved like a shadow, each footstep precise, deliberate. He had trailed one of the protest organizers here—a man with enough pull to coordinate logistics, rations, movement strategies. The warehouse was nearly empty, save for scattered crates and tables cluttered with comm gear.

But Jovian’s focus was on the man already waiting inside.

Thalen Duras. A name he knew well. A snake, a manipulator. A known operative of a rival House. He lounged against a crate, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. This wasn’t just a meeting—it was a game. And Thalen was enjoying himself.

“You’re doing well,” Thalen said smoothly. “The anger is real, but it needed a push. Sunrider is watching, but they’re not moving fast enough. We need to escalate.”

The protest leader hesitated, tension rippling through his posture. “They’re already angry. The strikes are working. We can keep pressing until they have no choice but to listen.”

Thalen shook his head, his smirk widening. “Not enough. We need riots. Fires. Blood in the streets. That’s how real change happens.”

Jovian had heard enough. This wasn’t just an attempt to sow chaos—Thalen was testing Sunrider, pushing to see how far they would go before making a fatal mistake. This was bigger than Tythas City.

Back in the upper levels of New Tythas, Jovian weighed his options. The Quaestor’s orders had been clear: stop the riots before they became uncontrollable. But a direct assault would only fuel the flames. Thalen wanted Sunrider to act with force—Jovian couldn’t afford to play into his hands.

Instead, he would set the board himself.

By morning, the plan was in motion.

A rogue security faction. That was the story the city would believe. Radical enforcers, supposedly fed up with the strikes, would move in with brutal efficiency, cracking down on the protests. Sunrider would disavow them, condemn the violence, and then sweep in as the city’s saviors. Order restored. Control maintained.

Jovian stood atop a water-processing plant, watching as his operatives moved into position. They were handpicked—former security officers, defectors, men with just enough hatred and bitterness to make the act convincing. Their uniforms were carefully chosen, their insignia deliberate. Every detail mattered.

The first strike came swiftly. A clash at a supply depot—protesters meeting violent resistance from armed forces that, to any observer, acted outside of Sunrider’s control. A second attack followed, a brutal raid on a known strike stronghold, crushing a key leadership hub before it could spread further.

Jovian had expected chaos, but he hadn't expected the sheer brutality of it. Blood ran in the streets. The mercenaries he’d hired took their roles too seriously, some reveling in the carnage. This wasn't a controlled operation anymore—it was becoming a massacre.

By the time fires erupted, the narrative had already begun to shift. The workers weren’t just angry anymore—they were terrified. Terrified of the brutality, of the unknown force that had turned against them. And when Sunrider’s forces finally moved in, not to crush, but to protect, the tide turned.

Jovian walked the streets as the chaos wound down, his expression unreadable as security officers rounded up the “rogue faction,” dragging them from hiding, executing a few in staged encounters to cement the deception. Thalen was already gone—vanished the moment he saw the writing on the wall. The protest leaders? Captured. Broken.

He found himself back in the Rift that night, alone, standing where the protests had begun. Smoke still lingered in the air, the scent of burnt banners and spilled blood clinging to the wind.

Had he done the right thing?

He told himself it was necessary. Sunrider needed control. This would prevent an all-out war. But the justification rang hollow.

As he stared into the darkened streets, a new thought chilled him to the core—what if Thalen had accounted for this? What if, in orchestrating his deception, Jovian had played into the rival House’s hands all along?

Somewhere in the darkness, another riot was already being planned. Somewhere, another enemy watched, learning from his tactics, waiting for their moment.

For now, Sunrider had won.

But he had no illusions.

The next storm was already brewing.

And next time, it would be worse.

The market is alive in the way only places of vice and barter can be. It stinks of desperation, opportunity, and sweat, all wrapped in the perfume of roasted meats and spilled spice. The bodies around me shift, brushing past one another in a constant tide of movement—buyers, sellers, pickpockets, and predators alike.

I’ve learned to move with them, to let the flow carry me while keeping my own direction. You survive longer that way.

And then I feel him.

He stands too still in a place where no one is still. That alone is enough to mark him. But it’s more than that. He’s watching. Tracking. Not just glancing at wares or picking a target to steal from—he’s observing patterns. Watching the way people move, the space they leave between one another, the moments they hesitate before making a deal.

I don’t like it.

I slow my steps just slightly, feigning interest in a crate of dried fruits while I take him in. Human, Core-born, maybe Mid Rim at the furthest. Pale skin, clean-shaven, and dressed too finely for a place like this. He’s careful about it—his jacket isn’t flashy, but the material is too smooth, too tailored. Someone who knows how to blend but still doesn’t quite belong.

His boots are polished. That tells me more than anything else. A man with no dust on his boots hasn’t been walking through streets like these for long.

And then there’s his stance.

It’s subtle, but I know it because I’ve lived it. His hands rest at his sides, but his fingers are just slightly curled, his weight balanced over the balls of his feet. It’s a stance of control, of expectation. A man waiting for something to happen and ready to react when it does.

I start moving again, shifting through the market’s crowd in a lazy arc toward him.

His eyes flicker to my lekku first, as most do, but they don’t linger. That’s rare. Most humans let their attention get caught there. Instead, his gaze tracks the scars on my forearms, the ink winding across my skin. He notices details. I file that away.

When I step closer, he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react with hostility or invitation. He just watches. Calculating.

That makes two of us.

I let the silence stretch between us, long enough that most men would try to fill it. He doesn’t. Another mark in his favor. I’m the one who breaks it first, because I want to see what he does when prompted.

"Enjoying the market?"

His lips twitch—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. "More than I expected."

A smooth answer. A cautious one.

I don’t trust him.

But I want to know why he’s here.

---------

Jovian Grey moves differently than the others.

Most of the people in the market are either searching for something or avoiding something. He does neither. He lets the current of the crowd carry him, but there is an undeniable control to his movements. He gives the illusion of being relaxed, blending in with the shifting masses, but he’s watching everything. Calculating.

That’s what the reports failed to capture.

The files painted him as a former captive, a runaway who carved his own escape. The scars on his skin tell that story, but his posture tells another. This is not a man who fled. This is a man who was forged.

He’s lean but strong, with a dancer’s balance—fluid, but deliberate. He does not waste motion. His lekku shift as he moves, but it is controlled. Even the way they sway is calculated, almost like a lure, something meant to misdirect.

And then there are his eyes.

Red, sharp, and watching.

The way he looks at me reminds me of how a predator watches something that it isn’t sure is prey yet. That look, more than anything, is what confirms my suspicions.

He’s assessing me the same way I am assessing him.

I deliberately remain still, giving him time to make his approach first. He doesn’t disappoint. He circles in a casual arc, never moving directly toward me but always drifting closer. A lesser man would mistake it for curiosity, but I know better.

He’s testing.

The moment he closes the distance, I notice his scent—subtle, muted. Not the sweat and desperation of the market, but something clean beneath the layers of dust and smoke. A sign of someone who maintains control over his environment, no matter how chaotic.

Then, the final test.

He speaks first. "Enjoying the market?"

His voice is smooth, measured. No wasted breath, no inflection to suggest he cares about the answer.

I give him the barest twitch of my lips. "More than I expected."

That’s when I know.

The files were right about one thing—Jovian Grey is dangerous.

But not in the way they think.

He is not a survivor.

He is an adaptation.

The Breaking Point -- Jovian Grey
TW: Torture and overall dark theme

The ruins of Arclis IV were deathly silent, save for the tortured screams echoing against shattered stone.

Smoke drifted in thin, pale coils above the scorched earth, the scent of charred flesh lingering like a scar burned into the air. What little remained of the settlement was reduced to blackened bones of stone, and yet the tension that hung there was heavier than the destruction.

It was crushing.

And it all radiated from him.

Jovian Grey stood motionless in the heart of it all, his scarred, soot-streaked armor weighing heavy on his frame. His royal blue Templar cloak, torn and trailing in the ash, was a pale echo of what it had once been—now a banner of ruin.

But it wasn’t the sight of him that filled the air with dread.

It was the Force.

The cultist hung several feet off the ground, limbs twisted unnaturally wide as if held by a thousand invisible threads. He convulsed—his body wracked by a torment so precise, so controlled, it felt as though the pain was being carved into him like an artist sculpting suffering.

And Jovian stood in perfect silence, a conductor orchestrating this symphony of agony.

"You have made your choice."

The words were calm. Colder than steel.

The pressure in the air intensified.

The Force gripped the cultist—not just his flesh but his very essence. His chest heaved, his lungs unable to expand fully as the invisible weight pressed against his ribs. Muscles spasmed as though his body could no longer distinguish where it ended and the pain began.

But the true torment was far worse.

Jovian reached out with his mind.

And gripped the folds of the cultist’s brain.

It wasn’t subtle. There was no finesse.

The Force sank into his consciousness, pressing through every neural pathway like a serrated blade dragged across the fragile web of his thoughts. Jovian didn’t simply search for memories—he tore them open, forcing the man to feel every piece of himself being unwound.

"I will unmake you."

The cultist’s mouth opened wide, but the scream that followed was wordless—raw, primal, a sound not meant for the living.

"You believe faith protects you? That it gives you strength? Your faith is nothing but the shield you cower behind when the truth closes in."

Jovian pressed deeper.

Flashes.

A blood-soaked altar. The sigil of Mortis carved into stone. The faces of his masters, watching from the shadows, faceless and cold.

"You think they would save you now? Would they even care?"

The cultist’s back arched, body thrashing violently as blood vessels burst just beneath his skin. His mind was no longer his own. Jovian was tearing it apart, fragment by fragment, splintering his very sense of self with every pulse of power.

The Force crushed him deeper.

"I feel your mind unraveling. I feel it breaking. And still, you hold your tongue? Impressive. Let us see how long that lasts."

The pressure twisted—deeper.

Pain unlike anything physical. The sensation of his thoughts being peeled apart like raw nerves exposed to open air.

And then—

The pain shifted.

It didn't stop. It changed.

Absence.

The Force vanished.

Gone.

The presence of the galaxy itself severed. The energy he had felt all his life—the very power that connected him to the world—was ripped away.

The void was total.

The cultist’s body convulsed harder, gasping for something he couldn’t even name, like lungs starved of air. But it wasn’t air he lacked.

It was being.

"This...absence... is what you left them with. Do you feel it? Do you understand it yet?"

The cultist sobbed.

"I... I can't...I can't feel it—p-please—"

Jovian stepped closer, his voice no longer calm.

It was a snarl.

"You do not beg for peace. You beg because you are weak. I will grind that weakness out of you."

The Force returned.

Not gently.

It slammed back into his consciousness like a tidal wave, crushing down harder than before. Bones creaked. Nerves burned. His mind shattered under the renewed weight of everything.

"Tell me where they are. Tell me."

The cultist sobbed harder, blood leaking from his nose, his face streaked with tears.

"I...I c-can't...they...they'll kill me—"

Jovian's head tilted.

"They will kill you? You fear them? Look at yourself.

"Who do you fear now?"

The cultist let out a wretched cry. *"You—please—please—stop—"

Jovian leaned closer.

"No."

The pain increased.

"This? This is my mercy. If I wanted to end you, I would have done so when your faith first failed you. But you will speak. Not because you wish to... but because I will take it from you."

The cultist's body went limp, his sobs the only sound remaining.

Jovian exhaled, drawing back slightly.

The Force remained thick. Unrelenting.

But the physical torment ceased—just long enough for the cultist to feel the ache, the void left behind by pain.

"Now, you will crawl before me. And you will speak."

The cultist collapsed in the ash as Jovian released him, his broken form shivering uncontrollably. His voice was barely audible.

"P-please... I... I'll tell you... I'll tell you everything...

Jovian watched him, expressionless.

"You mistake this for the end? No... you will tell me.

"Then you will learn what comes after."

He extended his hand. The Force wrapped around the cultist's shattered frame once more.

And he dragged him—sobbing, broken, and lost—into the darkness where no one could hear his screams.

The hab block shuddered as it descended through Tythas City’s atmosphere, the vibration almost soothing in its regularity. But Jovian, standing in the control room with the engineers and soldiers, knew better. He felt the shift, that telltale deviation in the thrusters, like the tremor before an earthquake. The hair-thin scar along his cheek tightened as he clenched his jaw, his crimson lekku twitching in anticipation of disaster. “Something’s wrong,” he muttered, his voice low, but carrying an edge of authority.

His crimson eyes, still glowing faintly from the internal power that pulsed through him, scanned the room. The engineers worked at their stations, oblivious to his mounting concern. They were too used to minor malfunctions, the usual chaos that came with deploying Mon Calamari habitation blocks. But Jovian wasn’t. His lekku draped across his shoulders, their intricate tattoos shifting as he moved, a silent testimony to years of violence and captivity. He was no longer a mere ornament, no longer the slave he once was.

The suit of dark, ceremonial armor he wore made him feel invincible — and yet, the feeling of danger prickled at the edge of his mind, more than just intuition. Something deeper, darker, stirred inside him, warning him of the storm to come.

The command panel flickered. A voice crackled through the comms, panicked, though the words were barely decipherable through the interference.

“—thruster malfunction—course deviation—”

Jovian didn’t wait for confirmation. He turned, his cloak billowing behind him as he stormed toward the main viewport, where the glowing outline of Tythas City’s terraformer loomed in the distance. Too close. The hab block was veering off course, inching toward the massive structure meant to terraform the planet into something livable. One of the engineers, a Mon Calamari with wide, panicked eyes, leapt from his station, running calculations on a nearby terminal.

“We’re going off course!” he yelled. “The thrusters — they’re malfunctioning again! We’re going to hit the terraformer if we don’t correct this now.”

The room erupted into chaos, engineers shouting over one another, soldiers barking orders, trying to secure the situation. Jovian watched the chaos unfold, his gaze cold and calculating. The urge to take control burned inside him, but the darkness within urged patience. The solution would present itself. It always did.

“Can we shut down the malfunctioning thrusters remotely?” one of the engineers asked.
“We can try, but it’ll take time,” came the reply from another.

“Time we don’t have,” Jovian said, his voice cutting through the noise. His piercing red gaze locked onto the lead engineer. “What’s the manual override procedure? How do we stop this thing from smashing into the terraformer?”

The engineer blinked, caught off guard by the Twi’lek’s sudden demand. “Manual override? We’d have to go outside — EVA suits, thruster controls are external. And even then, with the speed we’re descending—”

Jovian nodded, already moving. “Get the suits ready.”

“I—what? Are you serious? That’s insane!” the engineer sputtered.

Jovian turned, his movements graceful yet filled with tension, his crimson skin practically glowing in the dim light of the control room. “The choice is simple,” he said, his voice calm yet filled with an undercurrent of barely restrained fury. “You either get the suits, or we all die when this block crashes into the terraformer.”

A silence fell over the room. For a moment, the only sound was the distant roar of the malfunctioning thrusters, vibrating through the metal walls of the hab. Then, reluctantly, the engineer nodded.
Minutes later, Jovian stood in the airlock, the EVA suit constricting around his frame. The sensation was suffocating, a stark reminder of his time in captivity, but he pushed the memories aside. The task ahead required focus, not the ghosts of his past. He flexed his fingers inside the thick gloves, feeling the weight of the suit restrict his movements. The helmet hissed as it sealed, and his breath echoed in his ears, steady but tense.

Behind him, a team of soldiers and engineers prepared for the dangerous task of venturing outside. Their fear was palpable, their movements hesitant. Jovian could sense their unease, and part of him relished it. They didn’t know who he truly was, what he was capable of. They saw only the surface, the scars and tattoos, the armor that whispered of violence.

The airlock hissed, and with a violent jerk, the outer door slid open. The howling winds of the atmosphere buffeted against them, and the moment they stepped outside, they were greeted by the dizzying sight of Tythas City far below, the terraformer gleaming ominously in the distance.
Jovian activated the magnetic clamps on his boots, his steps steady as he moved across the exterior of the hab block. The others followed, their voices crackling over the comms, a mixture of fear and determination.

“We need to reach the starboard thrusters first,” one of the engineers said, his voice trembling slightly. “They’re the ones causing the most deviation.”

Jovian nodded, his focus narrowing to the task at hand. The hab block rumbled beneath them, the metal creaking under the strain. The malfunctioning thrusters sputtered, firing intermittently, veering them dangerously closer to the terraformer with each burst. He led the team to the thrusters, his sharp eyes scanning the control panel embedded in the block’s exterior. It was sparking, wires frayed and exposed to the harsh elements. Without hesitation, Jovian reached into the damaged panel, his hands moving with surprising dexterity despite the bulky gloves. He pulled at the wires, rerouting the power, overriding the malfunctioning systems with brute force.

“Thruster two is back online!” one of the engineers shouted over the comms. “The course is stabilising, but we’re still heading toward the terraformer!”

Jovian growled in frustration, pulling harder at the wires, his movements becoming more frantic. The darkness inside him stirred again, a familiar presence that whispered promises of power, of control. He could feel it pulsing in the insignia on his chest, begging to be unleashed.
No. Not yet
.
“The port thrusters!” the engineer yelled. “They’re still malfunctioning! We need to—”

Jovian didn’t wait for the rest of the sentence. He moved with purpose, heading to the port side of the block, the others scrambling to keep up. The wind roared around them, threatening to rip them from the surface of the hab block, but Jovian’s focus remained unwavering. As they approached the second set of thrusters, another burst of fire erupted from them, sending the block into a violent spin.

The soldiers and engineers were thrown off balance, tumbling across the surface of the block. Jovian barely managed to hold on, his magnetic boots straining to keep him grounded.

“Get those thrusters shut down now!” the lead engineer screamed, his voice laced with panic. Jovian didn’t respond. He was already at the control panel, his hands moving faster than they should have been able to, his mind racing as he calculated the right sequence of wires to pull. The darkness inside him surged, lending him strength, and for a moment, his eyes burned with an unnatural light.

The thrusters sputtered once more, then went silent.

The hab block shuddered but began to stabilise, its course slowly correcting as it moved away from the terraformer. Cheers erupted over the comms, the tension releasing in a flood of relief.

But Jovian stood still, his hands trembling, the glowing insignia on his chest pulsing faintly. He had done it. They had survived. But the darkness inside him remained, always whispering, always waiting.
And next time, it wouldn’t be so easy to resist.