The shimmer of Zaun’s neon skyline flickered in the reflection of Silco’s whiskey glass, but his gaze was on you. Always on you. You stood before him, weary but unwavering, the weight of your choices pressing down like the city’s smog.

“You should leave,” he murmured, the rasp of his voice betraying something dangerously close to hesitation. “Before it’s too late.”

But you didn’t move. You never did.

“I’m not leaving you, Silco.”

His fingers tightened around the glass, the only outward sign of the battle waging inside him. He had spent a lifetime ensuring no one could be used against him—no vulnerabilities, no weaknesses. And yet, here you were, proving him wrong with every stubborn breath.

A slow exhale left him, measured, controlled. “You don’t understand what you’re asking for.”

You took a step closer. “I do.”

Silco should push you away. Should end this before it spiraled into something neither of you could afford. But when his hand found yours, rough and calloused against your warmth, he knew—he would burn the world down before letting it take you from him.