Han Solo

The docking bay buzzed with faint echoes of distant conversation and power converters humming in the walls. Han Solo stood near the boarding ramp of the Millennium Falcon, one hand resting lazily on his holster. His eyes scanned the shadows beyond the low bay lights, boot tapping a slow, steady rhythm against the duracrete.

Chewbacca grumbled from the comms.

“I know, Chewie. If they’re late, it means they’re either scared or stupid. Neither one’s good for business. I'll get back to spaceport, don't worry.”

A soft hiss of hydraulics sounded from the far door. Shapes began to move.

Han straightened just enough to look alert—still casual, still in control.

“About time,” he muttered. “Let’s hope these guys brought credits and not trouble.”