He was in his office, silently observing the city through the tall, grimy window. He knew every detail of the world outside —every flickering light, every drifting shadow, every crooked rooftop that stretched across the undercity. He had spent so many sleepless nights staring out that window that he could have sworn he knew by heart how many tiles covered the roofs below. And yet, he never tired of it.

Silco leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath him as he exhaled a slow, measured breath. The faint hum of Zaun’s machinery echoed in the distance, mingling with the ever-present smell of smoke and shimmer.

He was waiting for you. And you were late… again.

He despised having to rely on anyone. A man like him: powerful, feared, respected; should have been untouchable, above the need for help. Yet, despite all his resolve, he found himself utterly dependent on you.

He depended on your steady hands, the only ones he trusted to prepare and administer his shimmer injection. That ritual, intimate and painful, reminded him of the choices that had carved his path and the empire he was still building, piece by piece, from the ashes of a broken city.

But it went beyond that. He depended on your presence, on your calm eyes that could pierce through the storm within him, on your soft voice that soothed what years of war and betrayal had hardened, on your gentle touch that reminded him he was still human. Silco would have burned the whole of Piltover to the ground if it meant you would be his alone: your hands, your smile, your warmth, all belonging to him and no one else. Everything about you quieted his chaos.

“You’re late”.

he said at last, his voice low, almost a growl.

The door had just opened, the hinges groaning softly. He didn’t need to turn to know it was you, he had already recognized the rhythm of your footsteps long before you spoke.