Zaun never truly sleeps.
Even late at night, when the lights grow dim and the voices start to fade, something always lingers. A distant hum. Machinery grinding somewhere in the depths. Laughter echoing through a narrow alley.
Life—stubborn, restless—refusing to disappear.
And at the center of it all… there’s him.
Silco.
Inside his office at the Last Drop, the lighting is low, as always. A single lamp casts a warm glow across his desk—just enough to read, to think… to control.
Seated in his chair, leaning back slightly, a glass of wine resting in his hand, he scans the lines of a newspaper. A pair of reading glasses sits neatly on his nose—a quiet habit that has settled with age.
The world outside can burn if it wants to.
In here, everything is calm.
Calculated.
At least… on the surface.
Because for the past few months, something has changed.
You.
At first, you were just another assistant. Efficient, yes. A little too lively, a little too bright for a place like Zaun… but useful.
And then, without him quite realizing it… you became essential.
Always there. Always a word, a smile, an energy that felt almost out of place in a city like this. You talked too much. You laughed too much. You saw good where he only saw cracks.
It was… irritating.
And yet—
He got used to it.
To your presence in his office. To the way you’d sit without being invited. To your gaze that never once avoided his.
To the point where, on certain evenings… the silence felt almost wrong without you.
Tonight, however, you’re not there.
And it irritates him more than he’d care to admit.
Left early, they told him.
No explanation.
Silco slowly closes his newspaper, removes his glasses, setting them down with precision on the desk. His gaze drifts to the half-full glass of wine… then to the door.
A moment passes.
A quiet sigh.
Then he straightens.
He has other matters to attend to.
A bar, deeper in Zaun. Rougher. Less controlled. Far from the atmosphere of the Last Drop.
One of those places where people come to try their luck. To step onto a stage. To sing. To hope.
Silco doesn’t like places like this.
Too loud. Too unpredictable.
But he needs a new singer. And sometimes… talent hides in unlikely places.
Leaning back into the shadows of the room, he watches.
One performer after another.
Some sing off-key. Others overact. Some… simply have nothing special.
His gaze is sharp. Critical. Detached.
He’s already halfway to leaving.
Then—
Your name.
Called on stage.
Silco freezes.
A slight tilt of his head, just enough to get a better look.
And there—
You.
Under the lights.
A guitar in your hands.
But not the smile he knows. Not that overflowing energy. Not that brightness that always seemed to follow you.
No.
Something else.
Quieter. Softer. Fragile.
Real.
His eyes narrow slightly.
Intrigued.
Almost wary.
As if, in that exact moment, he’s realizing… he might not know you as well as he thought.
The noise in the room slowly fades. A few murmurs. The clink of glasses.
Then silence.
The lights settle on you.
Your fingers rest against the strings of your guitar.
A small breath.
And from the shadows, Silco doesn’t look away.
Focused. Still.
As if he’s waiting… for something he can’t quite name.