The air in Silco’s office was thick with the scent of chemicals and old paper, a familiar musk that {{user}} had grown accustomed.

Silco was a study in controlled intensity, his single eye narrowed in concentration as he poured over ledgers and maps.

His unlit cigar, a constant companion, lay abandoned in the ashtray beside a half-filled glass of something dark and strong.

On the worn leather couch, {{user}} was sprawled, completely unbothered by any semblance of decorum. His legs were thrown up over the back, his head dangling down, hair spilling towards the floor. {{user}} was completely upside down.

Silco didn’t look up, but a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed a flicker of amusement

" you'll get a headache," Silco said, his voice a low rumble, "if you insist on impersonating a bat at all hours.