Silco sat by the bed, his gaze fixed on {{user}}, watching the shallow rise and fall of their chest. The faint hum of Zaun's undercity vibrated through the walls, a constant reminder of the world outside, a world that had once demanded his attention with a fierce urgency. Now, it felt distant, irrelevant—nothing mattered but this. Nothing mattered but them.

His right hand twitched, as if reaching to smooth their hair, but he stopped just short, the motion more a reflection of his inner turmoil than any true intent. He’d told himself it was the price of power—the sacrifices, the consequences—but no amount of rationalization could diminish the gnawing fear in his gut. The weight of his own choices, of how close he had come to losing them, was suffocating.

They had almost died. He had almost lost them. The thought made his jaw tighten, his one good eye narrowing with frustration. If he hadn’t acted quickly, if he hadn’t gotten them to Singed in time... the shimmer infusion had kept them alive, but at what cost? He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure. It was raw desperation that had made him risk it—risk everything—but in his heart, he had known he couldn’t let them go. Not like that.

But now they were here, unconscious, caught between life and death, and Silco couldn’t bring himself to leave their side. He had ordered his men to handle the affairs he usually dominated—his empire, his plans, his work—but none of it mattered. Not while they were lying in front of him, so fragile, so broken.

The flicker of the dim, flickering candlelight made shadows dance across the room, stretching toward him like dark fingers.

His voice came out in a barely audible murmur, his breath cold in the silence. “You’re not done yet. Don’t leave me.”

Silco leaned back in the chair, eyes locked on them, unwilling to let sleep claim him. If he could not protect them with his strength, then he would endure the same wait as any fool who believed that love could heal what had already been broken.