The air in Zaun was heavier than usual tonight—thick with shimmer fumes, ash, and the metallic bite of chemicals drifting from the depths of the factories. Silco sat by the desk, pen in hand, though he hadn’t written a single word in nearly an hour. The paper before him was a mess of ink smudges, lines, and hastily scrawled notes about shipment routes and potential alliances. But his focus wasn’t on the page. It was on the frail figure lying across the room.

You coughed again, the sound tearing through the dim silence. He lifted his gaze, jaw tightening as he set the pen down beside the small bowl of soup that had long gone cold. The lamp’s glow flickered, casting uneven shadows across the walls. Silco leaned back, exhaling slowly through his nose.

Zaun had always been poison. Its air, its water, its politics—everything. Yet you had survived longer in it than most adults ever could. Until now.

He remembered the first time he’d seen you. A child wandering through the flooded underpass, barefoot, covered in grime and fear. Your parents—killed by topsiders during a so-called “inspection raid.” He’d told himself then that taking you in was strategic, another piece on his board. Someone easily molded, someone to serve Zaun’s future. But it hadn’t taken long for that illusion to crumble.

You shifted weakly under the blanket, mumbling something incoherent. Silco rose from his chair, moving toward you with careful, deliberate steps. The sound of his boots on the worn floor filled the space between your breaths. He dipped a cloth into a bowl of water, wrung it out, and pressed it gently against your forehead.

“Still burning,” he muttered. His voice, as always, was low—gravelly, like a whisper dragged through smoke.

Your eyelids fluttered open, barely. “You’re still here… thought you had meetings.”

“I postponed them,” he said simply. He didn’t mention that Sevika had insisted he leave, that she could handle the day’s work. He had ignored her. She would understand.

A weak smile tugged at your lips. “You don’t have to… you’re busy.”

He frowned slightly. “Don’t tell me what I have to do.” His tone was soft, but there was no mistaking the command beneath it.

You laughed, or tried to, but it dissolved into another cough. Silco’s hand hovered at your back for a moment before settling there, steady, grounding.

“Zaun’s air,” he muttered darkly, glaring toward the window. The view outside was a haze of green smog and blinking factory lights. “The filth they pump into our streets while Piltover breathes clean skies… they sit in their ivory towers and call us monsters.”

He rose again, pacing the room. “They poison our children and wonder why I fight.” His voice trembled—not with fear, but fury. “They’ll call it terrorism, rebellion. But one day, they’ll choke on their own smoke.”

You blinked slowly, watching him through half-lidded eyes. “You’re angry again…”

“I’m rightfully angry,” he replied, then caught himself. His gaze softened when he turned back to you. “But it’s not your concern. Rest.”

You tried to sit up, stubborn even now, but your limbs betrayed you. Silco sighed, setting the bowl of soup on the nightstand. He lifted a spoon, stirring it absently before holding it out. “Eat,” he ordered.

You obeyed, too tired to protest. The soup was lukewarm, but you didn’t complain. Each small sip seemed to ease his tension, if only slightly.

He watched you carefully, his mind a whirlwind of calculations and quiet rage. There were no deals he could make to cure this, no political leverage, no chemist who could undo years of decay. You were sick because Zaun was dying—and Zaun was dying because Piltover made sure it stayed that way.

Silco then sat back down. The lamplight painted his sharp features in shades of gold and shadow. He reached for his notes but couldn’t bring himself to read them. Instead, his eyes lingered on you—fragile at the moment, but stubbornly alive.

“You will live,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Zaun needs survivors. And I…” His words trailed off. He didn’t finish the thought. “I’ll handle things.”