Confessional

When Boba was arrested, before he was processed, before a decision was made about his fate, before he was sent off to prison, he had a visitor come to his holding cell.

Boba would have known what his visitor was by the sound of his footsteps alone. He didn't need eyes to recognize a gait he'd been hearing thousand-fold for much of his childhood. He didn't need sight but as it was, the cold durasteel chair he was sat in and the cold durasteel table he was cuffed to faced the doorway. As soon as the door to his cell opened, silent but for the unavoidable sound of the lock disengaging and re-engaging again, he had a clear view.

Boba saw painted duraplast armor and dark swishing kama.