Michael did not move as Jabba's grin lingered.
The chamber felt smaller than before, not because the room had changed, but because Michael understood the danger now. Blasters were still trained on him. Droids still watched from the walls. Jabba remained relaxed on his platform, as if the situation were already under his control.
Jabba shifted slightly, his massive body settling deeper into the cushions beneath him.
"Bib," he said.
Bib Fortuna stepped forward at once. His hands were folded into the sleeves of his robe, posture calm but alert. His eyes flicked briefly to the unconscious Twi'lek on the floor before returning to Michael.
"You will come with me," Bib said. "Lord Jabba has decided to explain the matter personally."
Michael nodded once. He did not resist when Bib gestured toward the exit. Running now would only confirm he could not be managed, and Jabba was clearly testing that boundary.
They left the chamber and entered the palace corridors. The halls were wide and curved, built to accommodate Jabba's size. Soft lights ran along the walls, casting long shadows. Music echoed faintly from somewhere deep within the palace, slow and steady.
Guards stepped aside as they passed. Some stared openly at Michael's form, their expressions unreadable. Others avoided looking at him at all.
Bib spoke as they walked.
"Two nights ago, one of Jabba's spice depots was attacked," he said. "It was located near the edge of Mos Espa, away from the palace."
Michael listened closely, eyes forward.
"The Pyke Syndicate led the assault," Bib continued. "They came prepared. Our guards were killed quickly. The spice was removed before reinforcements arrived."
Michael tilted his head slightly.
"They knew exactly where to hit," he said.
"Yes," Bib replied. "Which suggests planning. Or inside information."
They reached a large doorway that opened out into the night air. Mos Espa stretched beyond the palace walls, lights scattered across the city like dim stars. The air smelled of dust and engines.
A speeder waited nearby, its engine humming softly. Two guards stood beside it, hands resting near their weapons.
Bib gestured toward the vehicle.
"This will take you close to the site," he said. "From there, you will proceed on foot."
Michael looked at the speeder, then back at Bib.
"I won't be needing it," he said.
Bib paused, turning fully to face him.
"You will take it," he replied.
Michael crouched slightly, the curved blades of his feet pressing into the stone beneath him.
"I really do not need it."
Before Bib could respond, Michael stepped forward.
The space between them vanished. One moment, he stood near the speeder, the next he was several metres away, dust lifting as he stopped cleanly. He turned and looked back at them.
One of the guards swore under his breath.
Michael tilted his head.
"Walking is faster for me," he said.
Bib studied him for a long moment. Then, without showing surprise, he reached into his robe and removed a small device.
"If you are going to run," Bib said, "then you will need this."
He held it out.
Michael approached at a normal pace this time and took the device. It was small and solid, a faint light pulsing on its surface.
"A waypoint finder," Bib explained. "We placed a tracker inside one of the stolen spice crates. We anticipated that someone was feeding information, so we took a precaution."
Michael turned the device in his hand.
"So I follow this," he said. "Find the spice. Deal with the Pykes."
"Yes," Bib replied. "Kill those involved. Recover the crates. Return them to Jabba."
Michael looked out toward the far edge of the city, where the lights thinned, and darkness deepened.
"And payment?" he asked.
Bib's lips curved slightly.
"Lord Jabba rewards results."
Michael nodded once.
"That will do."
Bib stepped aside, clearing the path.
"You may go."
Michael did not hesitate. He turned and ran, his body moving smoothly now, speed controlled and precise. The palace walls fell away behind him as Mos Espa opened ahead.
The job had begun.
The outskirts of Mos Espa felt quieter than the rest of the city.
Buildings were spread further apart, their lights dim and inconsistent. Many structures looked abandoned or repurposed, storage units stacked beside workshops and garages. The streets were wide and mostly empty, the air thick with dust and engine fumes.
Michael moved across rooftops and open ground with ease. The waypoint finder pulsed steadily in his hand, guiding him forward. Each time it brightened, he adjusted course without slowing down.
Running felt different now.
His body no longer fought itself. Balance came naturally. His feet struck the ground at precise angles, each step calculated without conscious effort. He slowed when needed, accelerated when space opened up, and adjusted his height instinctively to clear obstacles.
Speed was no longer chaos.
It was controlled.
The waypoint signal grew stronger.
Michael slowed as a large structure came into view, built into the rock at the edge of the settlement. Metal plating reinforced its walls, and thick doors sealed the entrance. Faint lights flickered above, casting uneven shadows across the ground.
Two guards stood outside.
Their armour marked them clearly as Pyke Syndicate members. They were relaxed, one leaning against the wall while the other checked something on a datapad.
Michael watched them for several seconds.
They were not even alert.
The distance closed instantly. One guard hit the ground without a sound. The second barely had time to look up before Michael struck, knocking him unconscious with a clean blow.
Michael caught the door before it slammed shut and slipped inside.
The interior was wide and dim, lit by low ceiling panels. Crates were stacked along the walls, some marked with shipping codes, others with familiar spice symbols. The smell was strong and unmistakable.
Voices echoed from deeper inside the facility.
Michael moved forward, staying low and fast. He kept to the edges of the space, slipping between stacks and shadows. A Pyke rounded a corner and collapsed before he could react.
Another spotted movement and raised his blaster.
Michael struck the weapon aside before it fired and followed with a sharp blow that sent the man to the floor.
Blaster fire erupted from further inside.
Bolts streaked through the air, burning lines into the walls and crates. Michael changed direction instantly, zigzagging through cover. The shooters tried to track him, but their movements were too slow.
He closed the distance.
One Pyke fell as his blaster was ripped from his hands. Another dropped when Michael struck his legs, sending him crashing to the ground.
Michael did not linger. He moved on before anyone else could react.
The waypoint pulsed faster now.
He advanced room by room, clearing the facility with steady efficiency. Some Pykes attempted to flee. Others tried to form a defensive line.
None succeeded.
Speed overwhelmed preparation. By the time blasters were raised, Michael was already gone, reappearing behind or beside them. He struck pressure points, joints, weapons, anything that ended the fight quickly.
He left them alive.
Jabba would want answers, and besides, he couldn't kill with these hands.
Eventually, the voices stopped. The facility fell silent except for the low hum of its systems.
Michael entered the central storage area.
Crates filled the space from floor to ceiling. The waypoint finder glowed brightly now, its signal clear and steady. Michael followed it to a stack near the back.
There.
The tracked crate sat among the others.
Michael confirmed the signal, then scanned the surrounding stacks. The remaining spice crates were present as well. The Pykes had not yet moved them again.
He rested one rounded hand against a crate and let out a slow breath.
His body felt warm, but stable. No shaking. No loss of control. The transformation held firm.
He checked the time display on the waypoint.
Two hours.
That was how long it had taken to secure the site.
Michael activated the communicator Bib had given him.
"Spice secured," he said. "Location clear. Send pickup."
There was a brief pause.
"Speeders are en route," came the reply. "Hold position."
Michael moved to the entrance and kept watch.
Jabba's speeders arrived not long after, engines roaring softly as they descended. Guards dismounted quickly, spreading out to secure the area. Others began loading crates and bodies with practiced efficiency.
No one questioned Michael.
Some avoided his gaze. Others watched him with open respect.
When the last crate was loaded, one of the guards nodded to him.
"Jabba will be pleased," he said.
Michael said nothing.
He watched the speeders lift off, carrying the spice back toward the city.
The job was done.
Michael returned to Jabba's palace as the city settled into the late hours of the night.
The trip back was quieter. Jabba's speeders flew low and fast, taking routes that avoided attention. Michael ran alongside them for most of the journey, matching their pace with ease. By the time they reached the palace gates, his body felt steady, the strange energy of his form no longer distracting.
Inside the palace, guards moved aside as soon as they saw him.
Word had already spread.
Michael was brought back to the same chamber as before. Jabba reclined on his platform, surrounded by droids and guards, his attention fixed on the incoming crates displayed on a nearby holoscreen. Bib Fortuna stood at his side, hands folded, expression unreadable.
Jabba's laughter filled the room as the final report came in.
"The spice is returned," Jabba said. "And the Pykes have learned a lesson."
Michael stepped forward slightly.
"The job is done," he said. "You asked for speed and silence. You got both."
Jabba's eyes settled on him.
"You move faster than anything I have seen," Jabba said slowly. "You struck without warning and left no mess behind."
Michael said nothing.
"Payment," Jabba continued. "You will receive credits. More than promised."
A gesture from Jabba sent a nearby droid moving.
"And more than that," Jabba added, "you will have work. My enemies will learn to fear you."
Michael felt the weight of the words settle in.
"I am not your property," he said. "I work for myself."
Jabba laughed again, the sound deep and pleased.
"Of course," he replied. "All valuable things believe they are free."
Michael held his gaze.
"For now," Jabba said, "you are welcome in my palace. You will be contacted when I have another task."
Bib stepped forward and handed Michael a small device.
"Your payment," he said. "And a secure channel."
Michael took it and nodded once.
As he turned to leave, he felt eyes on him from every corner of the room. Guards, droids, servants. All watching.
Outside the palace, Michael stopped and looked out over Mos Espa.
He had power now. Speed. Influence.
And he had just stepped into the underworld of the galaxy.
This was only the beginning.