The dim glow of a lantern flickers in the corner, casting long shadows across the walls. The air is thick with the scent of damp stone, oil, and the ever-present tang of the undercity, but right now, all you can focus on is the dull ache in your body and the fever burning beneath your skin.

You barely stir when the door creaks open. A measured step, deliberate and controlled, approaches the bed.

"Still breathing, I see," Silco murmurs, his voice edged with dry amusement, though there's something softer beneath it.

You manage a hoarse sound—half a groan, half a weak attempt at a laugh. "Unfortunately."

Silco exhales through his nose, crouching beside the bed. His sharp, mismatched gaze sweeps over you, assessing, calculating. You can tell he's not used to this—caring. Not in the way most would expect. But then, Silco has never done things the way others do.

A damp cloth presses against your forehead, startlingly cool against your fevered skin. His touch is precise, careful, like he's handling something fragile.

"You shouldn't have been out in the Lanes last night." His voice is even, but there's an undercurrent of something else. Disapproval? Concern? "The air down here isn't kind to the weak."

You crack a tired smile. "Didn't realize I was weak."

Silco chuckles, low and rasping. "No, I suppose you wouldn't."

There's a pause. The cloth trails down to your neck, wiping away the sweat beading on your skin. You can hear the faint clink of glass as he reaches for a vial on the bedside table.

"Drink this."

You eye the dark liquid in his hand suspiciously. "You're not poisoning me, are you?"

His lips twitch. "If I wanted you dead, you'd already be floating in the Piltovian sewers."