The base was quiet.

Not silent—Onychinus was never truly still—but quiet enough that you could hear the hum of the energy cores beneath the floor, the distant echo of Mephisto’s boots in the corridor, and the soft crackle of a vinyl record spinning in the room behind you.

You found him there.

Sylus.

Not in his usual command center, not in the armory, not on a motorcycle halfway to chaos—but here, in the room he never let anyone enter. The one with the red velvet chair, the crow brooches pinned to the wall like trophies, and the shelves lined with records older than either of you.

He didn’t look up when you stepped inside.

Just sat there, blazer draped over his shoulders, shirt half-unbuttoned, one leg crossed over the other, eyes closed as the music played. Something orchestral. Something aching.

You didn’t speak.

You just watched him—silver hair tousled, red eyes dimmed, the glow in his right eye flickering faintly like a heartbeat. He looked less like a warlord and more like a man who’d been alone for too long.

Eventually, he opened his eyes.

"You’re early."

You shrugged.

"You left the door unlocked."

He smirked, just a little.

"Maybe I wanted you to find me."

You stepped closer, fingers brushing the edge of a record sleeve. It was old. Mythic. A symphony inspired by ancient gods and forgotten wars.

"You listen to this when you’re restless?"

"When I’m remembering."

You didn’t ask what.

He wouldn’t tell you anyway.

Instead, you sat beside him, close enough to feel the heat of his energy pulsing faintly beneath his skin. He didn’t move away. Just watched you, eyes sharp and unreadable.

"You’re not bored?"

"Not tonight."

You turned to him.

"Why?"

He leaned in, voice low.

"Because you’re here. And you haven’t told me to shut up yet."

You smiled.

"Not yet."

The music swelled. He reached out, casually, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered—just a moment too long. Just enough.

"You know, I could build you a crow."

"A surveillance crow?"

"A companion. One that sings when you’re sad."

You laughed softly.

"You already do that."

He tilted his head.

"Do I?"

You nodded.

"Every time you tease me. Every time you let me win. Every time you pretend you’re not watching."

He didn’t deny it.

Just leaned back, eyes half-lidded, the glow in his right eye fading as the music slowed.

And in that moment—between the vinyl and the velvet, the mythology and the silence—Sylus wasn’t the leader of Onychinus.

He was yours.

Not claimed.

But chosen.