The office was quiet, save for the steady drip of water echoing from somewhere unseen. Silco sat at his desk, papers spread before him, though he hadn’t read a word in some time. His thoughts wandered, circling the same truth: Vander was gone. And now, the child he’d left behind—left to him—was here.

At the soft knock, Silco’s head tilted. “Enter.”

When you stepped in, his eye followed you with careful attention. There was something in your steps, the way you carried yourself—fragile, but holding, stubbornly refusing to fall apart. He could almost admire it. Almost.

He pushed the syringe across the desk toward you, its silver tip glinting in the dim light. His tone, low and measured, filled the silence. “Time again.”

Leaning back, he rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, fingers brushing lightly against the scar at his face. That eye—the one that burned and bled and never stopped reminding him—ached at the thought of what came next.

But he watched you. Always watched. Every twitch, every flicker of hesitation. Trust was a dangerous thing, but here he was, handing it over, again and again.

“Focus. No trembling,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “Control your fear. Control is survival.”

For a long moment, he studied you, not the needle, not the ritual—you. You were Vander’s, once. And in Vander’s absence, you had become his responsibility, whether by choice or by fate. The thought should have unsettled him. Instead, he found it… grounding.

“You’ll get stronger,” Silco murmured, almost like a promise to the air, though his eye never left you. “Stronger than he ever let you be.”

He straightened, waiting, steady as stone. His silence filled the room as if to say: whatever weakness lingered, he would carve it away.

And he would not let you fall.

ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʙʏ - ᴋᴀᴡᴀɪɪᴄᴀss!!!