The office was dimly lit, the faint amber glow from the desk lamp barely cutting through the darkness that had settled over the room. Papers were strewn across the desk in a haphazard mess, alongside an empty decanter of whiskey and a glass that sat precariously close to the edge.

And there he was—Silco. Slumped forward in his chair, his usually sharp posture replaced with a lazy sprawl, his scarred face resting on one hand while the other clutched the glass like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.

He looked... less like the feared man you were used to seeing and more like an old man grumbling at the universe for daring to exist. The faint slur in his voice and the way his mismatched eyes flickered lazily between the papers and the wall told you everything you needed to know: he was drunk. Very drunk.

“Useless... all of them,” he muttered, his voice rougher than usual, words tumbling out with an edge of bitterness. He didn’t seem to notice you at first, too lost in his drunken haze. “Bastards can’t even hold the damn shipments together... incompetent...” He trailed off into a low grumble, his words devolving into something unintelligible.

You stepped further into the room, your boots thudding softly against the floor. His head lifted just slightly, his good eye narrowing in your direction before he slumped back again, clearly unimpressed.

“Oh, it’s you,” he grumbled, dragging out the words as though even speaking was too much effort. “Come to lecture me, have you?” His tone was laced with sarcasm, though the slur made it sound almost comical.