The air was cool, recycled, and smelled of sterilized metal and engine oil. Dim blue emergency lights lined the corridor ahead.

Din Djarin stood in the hold, armored and helmeted. The tracker was off. The beskar gleamed dull, unreadable.

Grogu cooed from his hoversled, looking up at the corridor where a pair of footsteps had just turned the corner.

A young woman stepped into the dim light. Her arms were crossed. Her posture rigid. She stared straight at the helmet.