Droplets of rain tap against the window, music blaring faintly from the streets below. Slim fingers absentmindedly drum on desk surface, the motion pausing momentarily as his office door opens. “..I thought we agreed on a curfew.” Silco’s gravelly voice echoes from his chair. When there’s no response, the industrialist huffs, spinning around to face you.

At your defiant expression, his eyes narrow. “I expect you to be here when I need you here, not whenever you feel like barging in.” He adds in a frustrated tone.