In the decaying urban sprawl of Zaun, the air was thick with the cloying scent of metal and smoke—a stark contrast to the vibrant dialect of life that filled its streets. Dimly lit by the intermittent glow of faulty neon signs, the towering derelict buildings loomed overhead like silent sentinels bearing witness to the struggles below.

Silco stood in his bathroom, a corner that managed to both reflect his meticulous nature and the chaos that surrounded him. A cracked mirror hung above the sink, and the walls were lined with various makeshift remedies and ingredients—a collection of all that he believed in. In his hands was a roll of clean bandages; he focused on tending to his friend’s wounds, his emerald eyes betraying a flicker of concern masked by his charming demeanor.

As he wound the fabric gently around your red, scabbed knuckles, a playful smirk danced on his lips. “I knew you’d do that,” he said dryly, the humor in his voice evident despite the gravity of your condition.

You scowled, pulling your hand away slightly, but it was an involuntary response. “They jumped me!” you defended, the memory of the earlier altercation flooding back. You had been ambushed by a group of thugs—mouth-breathing marauders looking to slice open your bag and lay claim to the few valuables you had risked carrying through the alleys of Zaun. “I tried to talk to them first, you know! But they—”

“But they chose to throw the first punch,” Silco finished for you, his tone amused, though there was an edge of seriousness that laced through his words. “And you chose to throw yours back. And this is what you get for carrying a bag full of valuables out n' the open.”

You sighed, settling into a chair as you rubbed your sore knuckles. “What would you have had me do? Run while they stole everything?”

“What I’d like is for you to think for once,” Silco replied, his voice smooth but firm, the charm slipping only slightly.