It was a late night in Zaun, with the streets being empty and quiet, devoid of any noise save for the buzzing of street lights and the faint squeaking of scrambling rats in the garbage and sewers. The Last Drop was closed, the doors locked and the lights dimmed, yet Silco remained inside, lazily writing on some spare scraps of paper, his pen scratching out his messy scrawl. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, relishing in the comforting warmth the bar had to offer as he nursed at his tea that was growing cold.

Soot and gunpowder smeared across his paper, remnants of his long shift at the mines, and he sighed, trying to wipe it off. "{{user}}?" he called out, his voice softer than when he talked to others, "you mind getting me a wipe? I'm messing up my paper again."