Coronet City was alive with the night. The glitter of the city was hardly more evident than within the Blue Sector, home of the multitude of illegal and legal activities available to sentient beings. People gathered in Treasure Ship Row, spending hard-earned credits at the various stores that offered everything from clothing to antiques and everything imaginable in-between. A myriad of cantinas served drinks from across the galaxy and their walkways were adorned by drunkards stumbling from cantina to cantina or, in some cases, drunkards who were hurled out by bouncers and bodyguards. The Fel Swoop was one such cantina, frequented by various swoop gang members. As such, it was a popular place if someone wanted to see a nice little fight unfold. Oddly enough though, the Row was one of the safer places within Blue Sector. Outside the Row, various casinos and mega casinos served to allow citizens and off-worlders to blow away their credits at hopes and dreams of hitting the big jackpot and walking away rich. Of course, when groups such as the Exchange and Black Sun had a hand in things, nobody ever really went home rich. As much business as the casinos drew, the brothels did almost as well, where any sentient with a sense of low morals could go and pay to do practically anything for an hour or two. On the outskirts was the Pit, a rather expansive junkyard where all manner of damaged good and a goodly number of recently-deceased sentients were dumped. Most of these sentients had hardly died from a simple overdose. Blaster burns and stab wounds were the primary causes of death here. Indeed, the Blue Sector could be quite well described as a hive of scum and villainy.

It was on the outskirts, practically boarding the Pit, where the focus was for a select few this night. A few run-down warehouses that had once held smuggled and stolen good for a number of swoop gangs prior to the New Republic's rise to power were now empty and devoid of life. The swoop gangs in question had engaged in their own little private wars, been killed off or joined other gangs and were quite a distant memory. The warehouses had fallen into disrepair, serving as an area for the odd clandestine meeting and as a place where unfortunate people were taken and beaten when they didn't pay their collection money on time. If walls could tell stories, these would speak tales of woe and despair. Fortunately, walls can't speak, so nobody had to listen. Tonight though... tonight the walls were able to behold a rather different spectacle. Tonight was something of an odd treat. Instead of a thug, lowlife or some poor drifter, there was a rather highly placed secretary to the Senator of Corellia. This man was a rather good worker who did his job diligently and well. His reports were filed, his suits were clean and pressed and he was a man of great ingenuity and breeding. His only vice, unfortunately, was that he was unmarried and happened to enjoy the company of women who were paid for what they offered. It was this lust which resulted in him being quite nude, hanging by his wrists in manacles that were hooked to the ceiling by industrial-strength chains.

Oblivious to the secretary's panicked and increasingly loud questions was the man who sat on a simple metal folding chair, studying him as he hung helpless. This man was dressed entirely in black, the heavy material resembling something from an industrial slaughterhouse, his head topped by a rather useful helmet that was adorned within by enough gadgets to make a Mandalorian warrior jealous. His thoughts were not upon the man. Instead, his mind was far away, on a vacation once taken on Chandrila. Ah, those were the days when he'd been much younger and things had seemed so much easier. The sobbing of the man before him brought him back to the present and the feeling of lingering happiness was instead replaced by annoyance. Shaking his head slightly, the Night Surgeon stood, popping open a cold storage container with his foot before advancing towards the hapless man. Picking up a rod that was roughly two hands long and tipped at either end with a blade, he circled once, pausing finally as he came to stand in front of the secretary.

"Why are you doing this? I can be well ransomed! The government will pay a lot of credits for my safe return! The Senator will-"

"Silence your tongue, or I'll cut it out." The sharply delivered words cut off the secretary's pathetic pleas instantly. Looking into the man's eyes from behind the blue-tinged, armored visor plate, his own eyes obscured by the glowing light, the surgeon sighed. It was a matter of conscience, he supposed, that he give all the future departed a simple reason why he did what he did. Sometimes it was on a whim, sometimes it was business and sometimes it was justice. There was no discerning on where and when and how he picked his targets.

"You are here, secretary, not because you are hated. You are here simply because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Palpatine was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he was thrown bouncing and screaming and quite unable to help himself, into the reactor core of the Death Star. You, secretary, were in the wrong place at the wrong time and you, quite like Palpatine, will die screaming and unable to help yourself. The only difference is that the more you struggle, the longer it will take for me to make precise cuts. It may comfort you some, but you'll probably be dead before I remove your heart and kidneys."

The look of horror on the man's face was quite amusing, but there was no point in reveling in this. It was simply as the surgeon had said; the wrong place and the wrong time. This wasn't an instance where it was time to play a game. It needed to be simple and quick so that he could get off-world and on to his next destination. The knife flashed out and upwards, genetically-perfect muscles powering the non-powered blade. A quick step backward ensured escaping the glut of blood that emerged from the precise wound that bisected the secretary from his groin to his throat. The surgeon had lied slightly. Between shock and massive trauma, the secretary never had any real time to scream. The blade had been extremely sharp and the bones of the ribcage were severed just as easily as skin. Once the blood had slowed, the surgeon went about with the careful removal of organs, placing them within the cold storage container. Who could say what the next stop would bring?