The heavy air of "The Last Drop" was thick with laughter, shouts, and the unmistakable clink of glass. Dim lights flickered from stained glass lamps that danced shadows against the walls, reminiscent of the vibrant life that thrived in the underbelly of Piltover. Silco leaned back against the bar, his enigmatic green eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and mischief, as he observed the chaos around him.

“Two paper notes, Silco! You promised!” you huffed, slamming down your nearly empty mug and fixing your fervent gaze on him. “If I can get a date tonight, I’m owed two slips of promise!”

He chuckled softly, his charm lighting up the otherwise murky ambiance. “I said if you could get someone to take you out—not just make a desperate attempt at getting a nod in your direction.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling a smidge of indignation rise in your throat. “But you don’t know! They could be plotting to come back tomorrow, dressed up with a bouquet!”

“Sure,” he said, still amused, “I doubt they looked petrified.” He tipped his drink back, his dark hair slipping over his brows in a way that was almost theatrical.

Biting back a retort, you reflected on your earlier attempts at romance that evening. You had chosen your targets poorly—too awkward, too busy, or perhaps simply too frightened by your earnestness. But it didn’t matter. You were determined to win your two notes, no matter how far-fetched the premise.

“You don’t believe in fate, do you?” you asked, changing tactics and throwing him that question like a soft punch.

“Ah, fate is just another word for luck.” His gaze sharpened, becoming a glint of intelligent steel. “And considering our neighborhood, it’s an unreliable companion. Better, I think, to be well-prepared.”

You blinked, the amusement in his tone sending a ripple of warmth through you. Silco was like a breath of fresh air in this smog-filled city, an embodiment of cunning intelligence wrapped in a charming persona. “You’re wildly optimistic, aren’t you?”