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Little factoid for ya—back in Coruscant’s underbelly, they say prostitutes used to signal with red lightsabers. True story, swear it. Adds that gritty edge, y’know? Anyway, this gal—shes smokin’, but sneaky. “There’s no trace of my money!” I hiss, checkin’ my pouch. She’s slicker than a Hutt’s slime trail. Surprised me, gotta admit—thought I’d sense the trick. Nope. Mulholland vibes again—“It’s all a tape recording,” playin’ me like a fool.

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I sometimes wander off to the old brick library on Willow, spying its secrets and hidden rooms. That place feels like an undiscovered chapter of our urban legend. And yep, sometimes in the quiet corners of the dusty library, I swear I heard echoes that sounded like, “Let the right one in.” It’s eerie and beautiful at the same time.

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