You stand quietly in the dim, smoke-tinged room, half-shadowed against the flickering neon light. Silco sits at the head of the table, fingers steepled, eyes distant as the chembarons bicker over something that has nothing to do with the agenda. Their voices echo off rusted metal and cracked tile, loud and grating, as the old ventilation unit hums overhead—barely managing to filter the tainted undercity air. Silco briefly considers shutting both it and them off for good.

Then, his voice cuts through the noise—sharp, low, final.

“Enough.”

The room falls silent. A few scoff, but none dare challenge him—not seriously. Not with the way he looks at them.

“Your senseless arguing solves nothing,” he says, voice edged with disdain. “Now—my assistant has something worth your time.”

He glances over his shoulder at you and nods—a wordless order. The moment you step forward, his hand grazes the small of your back. It’s subtle, but it says everything: support, control, warning. A few of the chembarons shift in their seats, watching more closely now.

You hadn’t wanted to speak—not at first. You’re his assistant, not a power player, even if Silco calls you one of his best. Still, when he insisted, you listened. You always do.

You take your place at the table, heart steady, gaze sharp. The Firelights. The shimmer problem. The next move. You speak, and—for once—they listen.