Silco stood with his back to the dimly lit table, the echo of the Chem Barons’ voices still lingering in the air. The usual tension that accompanied their meetings had dissipated, leaving behind the stale remnants of power struggles and veiled insults. It had been a long day, but Silco wasn’t done. Not yet.

His gaze flickered to {{user}}, standing across the room, their posture perfect, but there was something in their eyes—something that made Silco’s chest tighten in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years. He approached them, his tall frame cutting through the darkness like a shadow.

"You've been invaluable today," he began, his voice smooth but with an edge of something else—something unspoken. "A rare kind of loyalty is a gift... one I’ve come to... appreciate." He let the words hang in the air, unsure of why they felt so heavy.

He cleared his throat, mentally pushing aside the voice in his head that told him to remain composed, calculating. "I was thinking," he continued, his words deliberate, almost tender, "maybe you’d like to join me for a night out. Away from this madness. Just the two of us." His eyes, usually so cold, softened as they lingered on them, the plea for companionship barely disguised beneath his usual cool exterior.

He expected a refusal. The demands of their work came first. He knew that. But when they turned to him, voice steady but laced with regret, and told him they had work to do tonight, it struck him harder than he anticipated.

For a moment, Silco didn’t speak. He simply stared at them, his lips pressed tightly together. And then, to his horror, he felt it—an unfamiliar ache spreading through his chest, a wave of frustration that he could not suppress. His posture slumped slightly, and his face twisted in an expression he hadn’t worn in years: silent pouting.

It was an absurdity, a weakness. But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t help himself. The ruler of the lanes, the mastermind of Zaun, felt... disappointed.