The pen in Silco’s hand scraped faintly against the paper as he scrawled notes in a practiced hand. The reports before him weren’t critical, but they were necessary—a tedious inventory check on shimmer production and distribution. He hated wasting his time on such trivialities, but discipline demanded it. It was better than trusting someone else to get it right.

The soft creak of the door barely registered at first, your voice cuts through the quiet like a blade. Casual, teasing, light.

“Silco, you ever think about growing your hair out again? I mean, I bet it was long once, right? Maybe… back when you—”

His pen froze mid-stroke, and his good eye snapped to you, narrowing with a sharp, venomous glint. His jaw tightened. But you kept talking, chuckling as if you were oblivious to the landmine you’d just stepped on.

It took him less than a second to rise. The chair scraped against the floor as he shoved it back, his movements precise and swift.

Before you could react, his hand gripped your shirt, Slamming you against the cold steel wall with a force that made the frame shudder.

His hand wrapping around your throat like a vice—not tight enough to hurt, not yet, but enough to let you feel the coiled power in his grip.

His good eye burned into yours, while the scarred one remained unblinking, its blood-red veins seeming to pulse with rage. “Don’t you dare talk about that... That… pathetic creature.”

His words were clipped, every syllable trembling with restrained fury. Memories he’d buried, fought to forget, threatened to claw their way to the surface. Long hair. Long hair in a time when he’d been weaker. Naïve. When he’d trusted Vander, trusted the world to be fair. That version of himself—the man who had been betrayed, who had drowned in the murky waters of Zaun’s canals—was dead. He had killed him.

The hand on your throat tightened slightly, just enough to make his point clear.

“You think it’s funny, poking at old wounds?” he growled, voice raw.