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He walked out, down the hall, past the sleazy-looking woman at the desk.

And kept walking …

All day he walked, moving like a droid through the unsavory crowds of this area, which was one of the “borderline” red-light districts that intersected with one of the nonhuman enclaves. He did not eat, could not face the idea of food.

He was always conscious of the stolen blaster in the front of his jacket. With part of his mind, Han rather hoped that someone would try to rob him. That would give him an excuse to lash out, to maim or kill—he wanted to destroy something. Or someone.

But nobody bothered him. Perhaps there was some aura he projected, some body language that warned others to keep “hands off.”

His mind kept playing tug-of-war with his heart. He went over and over everything they’d ever said and done. Had he done something wrong? Was Bria a lovely, troubled, but decent girl fighting a deadly addiction? Or was she a spoiled, callous rich kid who’d been playing a cruel game? Had she ever really loved him?

At some point Han found himself on a street corner between two massive stone piles of rubble. In his hands was Bria’s flimsy, and he was trying to read it by the flickering light of a brothel’s sign. Han blinked. Must be raining … His face was wet …

He looked up at the sky, but of course, there was no sky, only a rooftop, high above. He held out a hand, palm up. No rain.

Folding the letter, Han put it away carefully. He resisted the momentary urge to shred it, or blast it into cinders. Something told him he’d regret it if he did.

Whatever she was, she’s GONE, he decided, straightening his shoulders. She’s not coming back, and I’ve gotta pull myself together. First thing tomorrow, I go looking for Nici the Specialist at The Glow Spider …

Han realized it was now late at night. He’d been wandering the streets for twelve or fifteen hours. Fortunately, in this district, some places never slept. The Corellian realized that he needed both food and sleep—he was so empty and exhausted that his head spun.

He began walking slowly back the way he’d come, realizing that every step felt as though he were treading on burning sand. His soles were abraded and blistered, and he limped.

The pain in his feet was a welcome distraction.

From now on, it’s just me, Han Solo, he thought, stopping and peering up at the night sky, barely visible at the top of an airshaft. One star—or was it a space station?—winked against the blackness. Han’s mental declaration had the conviction of a sworn oath. Nobody else. I don’t care about anybody else. Nobody gets close, from now on. I don’t care how pretty she is, how smart, or how sweet. No friend, no lover … nobody is worth this kind of pain. From now on, it’s just me … Solo. With one part of his mind, he realized the grim irony of his inadvertent play on words, and he chuckled hollowly. From now on, his name was him. His name had come to stand for what he was, what was inside him.

Solo. From now on. Just me. The galaxy and everyone in it can go to blazes. I’m Solo, now and forever.

The last of the youthful softness had vanished from Han’s features, and there was a new coldness, a new hardness in his eyes. He walked on into the night, and his boot heels sounded hard against the permacrete—as hard and unrelenting as the shell now sheathing his heart.

A week later Han Solo walked toward the Hall of Admissions of the Imperial Space Academy. The building was a huge, topmost-level structure, massive and quietly, solidly dignified in design.

The light from Coruscant’s small white sun made him blink. It had been a long time since he’d seen sunlight, and his eyes were still sensitive, still easily irritated.

Having one’s retinal patterns altered was possible, as Han had just proved, but it hadn’t been a pleasant experience. He’d had the laser surgery and cell rearrangement, then he’d spent a day in a bacta tank, healing. He’d then worn a bacta visor for three more days, lying in a little back room at Nici’s “clinic.”

He’d put his forced