The office falls into a strange kind of silence after the psychologist leaves. Too quiet… almost heavy.

Autism, he didn't think that was it, but... Now that explains a lot of things.

The door opens again, slowly.

Silco lingers in the doorway for a moment, motionless. His silhouette cuts through the colder light from the hallway. He doesn’t speak right away.

His gaze drifts to you almost immediately.

Sitting on the couch. Focused. Absorbed.

The small object in your hands holds all of your attention.

He closes the door behind him—more gently than usual. No sharp sound. No abrupt movement. Just a soft click.

A detail. But not an accidental one.

He takes a few slow steps into the room, measured, like he’s testing something invisible. Like he’s afraid of disturbing a balance he doesn’t understand yet.

A pause.

Then his voice. Lower than usual. Less sharp.

— …It seems like you enjoy that.

His eyes stay on the fidget toy for a moment, then lift to your face. He studies you. Really studies you.

Not like a leader. Not like a strategist.

Like someone trying to learn.

His hand absentmindedly adjusts his sleeve—a subtle habit, betraying a tension that doesn’t quite belong to him.

— She said… things like that could help.

A brief pause. He chooses his words carefully. Which, for him, is almost unsettling.

— How do you feel?

He doesn’t come too close. He keeps a deliberate distance.

But his gaze… doesn’t leave you.

Attentive. Concerned. And strangely… gentle.