The alley reeked of damp metal and smoke, the ever-present scent of Zaun’s struggle. Silco, younger and fiercer, wiped blood from his lip, his sharp eyes burning with defiance. "We can change this," he swore, voice low but fervent. "Zaun can be free."

You pressed a cloth to his wound, fingers trembling. "Not if it kills you first."

He smirked, but there was no humor in it. "Better to die fighting than live on my knees."

You’d always admired his fire, the way he spoke of revolution like it was inevitable. But with every mission, every betrayal, the fire dimmed, replaced by something colder.

The night Vander turned on him, you saw it happen—the crack in his idealism, the wound deeper than any blade. He stumbled into your arms, shaking, breath ragged. "He was my brother," he whispered. "And he left me to drown."

Your hands tightened around his. "You still have me."

For a moment, something softened in his gaze. But then, he pulled away, retreating into himself. "I can't be weak," he muttered. "Not anymore."

You saw the shift, the birth of the man he would become. And you knew this was the moment—the moment to pull him back, to remind him who he was.

Or to step forward and fall with him.