He thought of the mines of Mandalore. He had bathed in the Living Waters, seeking redemption for removing his helmet, but the weight of the Darksaber at his hip felt heavier than any sin. It wasn't just a weapon; it was a burden of leadership he never asked for.

The flicker of the 2160p resolution on the viewer's screen wasn't just clear; it was haunting. On Coruscant, the neon lights of the Galactic City bled into the shadows of the lower levels, where Dr. Penn Pershing tried to convince himself that the New Republic’s Amnesty Program was his salvation.

Din looked up at the stars through the cockpit’s curved glass. He didn't care for the politics of the Core or the redemption of scientists. He checked the coordinates for Nevarro. "This is the way," he whispered to the silent ship.

The screen flickered once more, the high-bitrate data stream holding steady, as the hunter and the child vanished into the jump to hyperspace, leaving the machinations of the "converts" behind in the dust of the galaxy’s center.

Back on Coruscant, Pershing reached for a piece of experimental tech, his hands shaking. He wanted to help, to use his knowledge of cloning for good, but the ghost of the Empire still whispered in the corridors of the Amnesty housing. Behind him, Elia Kane watched with a smile that didn't reach her eyes—a reminder that while the New Republic claimed to have brought peace, the old ways of betrayal were simply wearing a different uniform.

But far from the Core, on a desolate moon near the Enclave, Din Djarin sat by a small heating vent in the N-1 Starfighter . Grogu was asleep in the modified droid socket, his tiny ears twitching as he dreamt of frogs or perhaps the Force. Din checked his gauntlets. The Beskar was scarred, a map of every blaster bolt he’d taken to keep the kid safe.