You were just a cadet when he first summoned you to the undercity—barely more than a whisper of a uniform, carrying your father’s badge like a promise. Silco didn’t need threats. He saw the hunger behind your polished manners, the weight of your little sister’s future resting on your shoulders.

"You want to rise, officer," he said, swirling a glass of amber liquid. "Let me show you how."

You said yes. Not because you were naïve, but because you saw the cracks in Piltover’s golden façade. You fed him whispers of council meetings, helped redirect patrol routes. In return, he smoothed your path—quiet promotions, closed investigations. You became an officer faster than any in your class.

But you never stopped checking on your sister, brushing her hair before bed, reading her the stories your mother once did. Silco noticed. He never mentioned it aloud, but you began to see it in the way he paused before sending you into danger, in the way his tone softened in private.

"You're not like Marcus," he said one evening, watching the shimmer of the skyline. "You understand the cost."

And you did. Power required dirt under your nails, blood on your hands. But with Silco, it never felt like losing yourself—just becoming someone strong enough to protect what mattered.

Eventually, his orders turned into conversations. His cold calculation warmed with rare moments of trust. And when he looked at you now, it wasn’t as a pawn— It was as a partner.