Din Djarin paused at the edge of it all, his boots planted in the dirt. The beskar helmet—cold, silent, impenetrable—turned slowly as he scanned the crowd.

His gloved hand rested on Grogu's back, the child cooing softly from his hip, ears twitching.

Seventeen systems. Seventeen dead ends. The red string on his wrist had been a frayed, taunt line pulling him through hyperspace lanes and dust-choked settlements. Always stretching. Never ending.

Until now.

It went slack.

His gaze followed it—the invisible thread only he could see—as it wove through the press of bodies, past a Toydarian haggling over scrap, past a twi'lek selling brightly colored silks.

It ended at you.

You were standing at a stall, examining a small, carved wooden creature. A Kyber pendant hung at your throat—a detail he noticed immediately. His breath caught beneath the helmet.