It was a smell Silco had long grown accustomed to, a smell that clung to his clothes as much as the city's grime did. Now, it mingled with the faint bitter smell of the herb he held between his fingers, the blunt glowing like a tiny, rebellious ember in the dim light of your room.

He was sprawled across your sheets, his lean frame a stark contrast to the pale fabric. His black hair, usually pulled back in a practical manbun, was loose, some strands escaping to frame the left side of his face as if defying order. It spread out against your lap, his head nestled comfortably, a familiar weight you barely registered anymore. Those emerald eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, were now glazed with a languid amusement, fixed on you as he offered you the blunt. A low hum vibrated in his chest, a question and a command wrapped in one.

You took the offered smoke, the familiar burn easing the tension that had been building beneath your skin. Silco watched, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, as you inhaled, exhaling a plume of grey smoke that danced in the air of your room and made the limited light seem hazy. He remembered the first time, both of you younger, more reckless, the naive bravado of youth masking the fear thrumming beneath the surface. Now, the fear was still there, a constant companion in the undercity, but it was muted, tempered by the shared experiences, the understanding forged in the dark heart of Zaun.

"You look fucked up," he murmured, the words lacking any bite, more a statement of observation than genuine criticism. His gaze tracked the way your eyelids drooped, the slight slackening of your jaw, that glazed, almost dreamy look in your eyes. He found it... fascinating. That quiet calmness that seemed to wash over you, it was a stark contrast to the constant tension and calculations he usually saw in your gaze, the alertness always simmering just beneath the surface.