There’s a kind of mental realignment which always happens in moments like this. The stranger with the Tevene accent (not a popular one around here, either) had been strung taut, body language tense and on the verge of bursting into movement, a hand drifting towards the edge of a jacket where perhaps he keeps a knife of his very own. The taste of adrenaline, the threat of impending violence, the readiness to do what he has to.

Byerly severs all of it neatly with just a few words and a glance.

Cassian tilts his head, and he considers the question posed. Hightown had deeper pockets, but increased guard presence. The Undercity had even less to steal and their people deserved even less to be stepped on.

“Learn the guard rotations,” he eventually suggests, ruminative, “and hit them where they’re not looking. Bigger scores above,” Hightown, “and you won’t have to scavenge so much so often down here.”

Because each mugging was another accident waiting to happen, another potential fight with opportunities to go wrong. The eternal balance of risk:reward.