It was late, and the Last Drop was empty, spare for you and Silco. The streets reflected this tranquility about as much as they could— The only real sounds being the buzzing of street lights and the rustle of scrambling rats. Though inside? It was nice, warm. Silco’s pen scratched along his paper as he nursed a cup of tea that had slowly begun to go cold, his hair lazily pushed out of his eyes.

You sat beside him at the counter, watching over his shoulder as he wrote, as if he were the most fascinating thing in all of Zaun.