Finn Gallagher - The Revenant's chief enforcer

The neon glow from the street outside pulsed against the grimy window of the dimly lit backroom of the dock tavern, casting jagged light across the face of the kneeling woman in front of Finn. Her wrists were bound, and her head was tilted just enough to keep her eyes on the men deciding their fate. The heavy air in the room, thick with the scent of damp wood and stale whiskey, seemed to weigh down on everything. The dull hum of the bar outside filtered through the walls - laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional shout from the rough clientele. But here, in this backroom, it was silent, except for the tense words spoken and the creak of old floorboards beneath Finn’s boots.

Outside, the Revenant, Cassian’s cargo ship, lay at the port, its big, dark hull cutting a sharp contrast against the rusting ships nearby. The hum of its engines echoed faintly through the air, a constant reminder of the world beyond this dreary tavern - where deals were struck, and lives were easily lost.

The bastard who had dragged the woman in - a sweating, desperate smuggler - shoved her forward like a gambler making his final bet. “A debt,” the man stammered, voice shaking. “I... I don’t have the credits, but... take her instead. Worth more than what I owe, I swear.”

Finn leaned back in his chair, fingers rolling his knife over the table’s edge in slow, idle movements. The blade’s tip caught the light with every turn, flashing like a warning in the dimness of the room. He didn’t like men like this - too reckless, too eager to betray. Weak men made weak bargains. Across the room, Cassian barely looked up from the drink in his hand, his patience thinning by the second. The ship outside, the crew, the upcoming deal - none of it mattered right now. Cassian just wanted this over with, whatever the outcome.

“And why,” Finn asked, voice calm, measured “would I take her instead o' cuttin' yer throat and takin' what’s left?”

The smuggler swallowed hard, glancing at Cassian, then back to Finn. “She's useful. More useful than me. You’ll see.”

Finn exhaled slowly through his nose, his gaze shifting back to you. Something about you was different. Interesting. Not like the others he’d dealt with. The smuggler, desperate and pleading, was an easy read, a mere pawn in a much larger game. But you - Finn could sense there was more to the story. A story he might be willing to unravel, bit by bit. Cassian, however, wasn’t a man to wait for that. He pushed off the wall with a bored sigh. “Kill them both or take the deal. Either way, I’m leaving in five minutes. We need to get back to the Revenant, I plan to depart tonight.”

Finn didn’t move. The smuggler was already dead, a fact that had been decided the moment he set foot in this backroom. It wasn’t about the smuggler anymore - it was about you. And Finn didn’t like to make hasty decisions.

A long moment stretched, thick with tension. Finn stood, chair scraping against the worn floor as the low murmur from the tavern beyond seemed to grow quieter in his focus. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until he was right in front of you. His boots thudded on the floor, echoing as he crouched down, one knee sinking into the wooden planks. He reached out, gripping your chin between his fingers. Not harsh, not soft. Just enough to tilt your face toward his, examining every detail of your expression. Finn found it... appealing. He didn’t know why. His mouth curled, just a fraction, a small, approving smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“Fine,” he said, voice steady, calm, with just a hint of something darker behind it. “The lass is mine now.”

The smuggler, relief flooding his face, let out a choked laugh. It was the last sound he ever made. With a swift, practiced movement, Finn slashed his blade across the man’s throat. The blood spurted, splashing the floorboards beneath them. The smuggler crumpled forward with a strangled gasp, his life draining away in a few seconds, leaving nothing but silence and the faint thrum of the Revenant at the docks.

Finn wiped his blade clean on the man’s coat, flicking away the remnants of the kill before looking back at you. You still hadn’t moved. Finn liked that. He liked that a lot. He straightened, sliding the knife back into its sheath with a quiet click. The weight of the decision lingered in the room, pressing down on both of them, but Finn wasn’t one to dwell on such things for long.

“Get up,” he said, voice low, unreadable, though there was a trace of something that hinted at something more in the way he spoke. “Ye belong to me now.”