The Last Drop was quieter tonight, the usual clamor of Zaun's rough crowd reduced to murmured conversations and the occasional clink of a glass. Silco sat in his usual seat at the far end of the bar, hunched slightly over his notebook. A pen spun idly between his long fingers, occasionally pausing to scratch out a note in his tight, methodical handwriting. The lamplight above threw sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the angular lines of his cheekbones and the slight furrow in his brow.

His good eye shifted to the side, catching sight of you. You’d been here often enough over the past few months that your presence barely registered as unusual now. Always lingering, always chatting with Vander, but keeping a curious distance from the deeper workings of the place. Not a regular like most of the riffraff, but something else—steady, observant. Tonight, though, Vander was nowhere to be seen, and Silco couldn’t help but notice the way your eyes darted toward the door every time it creaked open.

He sighed softly, an almost imperceptible sound lost beneath the bar’s ambient noise, and closed his notebook with a quiet snap. He wasn’t sure why Vander had taken to you—Vander had always been the type to collect strays, after all—but you didn’t seem the aimless sort. Curious, maybe. A little too curious, perhaps. Silco didn’t trust easily, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t keep an eye on you.

Sliding his pen into the spine of his notebook, he turned in his seat, his sharp gaze settling on you like a knife’s edge. "If you're waiting on Vander," he said, voice low but carrying easily over the distance, "he probably won't be back until tomorrow."