The Braided Knot was never meant to be holy ground, but that’s what it became under Eli Bray Voss. On Nar Shaddaa, the cantina stretched like a scar across the lower levels, humming with spice smoke and neon glare. Where other clubs sold drinks and music, the Knot traded in spectacle — dancers lifted high on transparisteel platforms glowing from below, patrons pressed in so tight the air itself shook with sweat and credits. The Knot wasn’t just a business; it was a kingdom, and Eli sat on its throne. He had carved it out from syndicate hands with blood and charm both, and now he ruled it with a grin sharp as a blade. His booth overlooked everything: the stage, the crowd, the credits changing hands. Every night, it was a theater of his own making.