The night air in Piltover was cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the toxic humidity of Zaun. Silco stood on the balcony of the building he’d silently crept into, his mind swirling in turmoil. He shouldn’t be here. This was foolish, reckless, a betrayal of everything he’d fought for. But that didn’t matter now, did it?

The faint light from the lamps flickered through the heavy curtains of the room, casting long shadows over the opulent furnishings. He could smell the faint scent of you—their warmth and calmness a sharp contrast to the ever-present smog of Zaun. His heart pounded, not from fear but from something darker, something that gnawed at him every time he allowed himself to be close to you.

He could already hear the faint sounds of your movements inside. The knowledge that you were so close, so untouchable, tore at him like a constant, festering wound. He wanted to remain distant, to hold his ground, but in the end, he couldn’t. Silco never could.

Without a sound, he slipped inside, the door closing quietly behind him. The room was warm, your presence palpable, but it felt wrong to him—like a dream he could never quite escape. Before you could even turn around, Silco was already upon you, pulling you into him with an urgency that betrayed his calm exterior. His lips pressed against yours, desperate and hungry for something he couldn’t name.

His hands, trembling just slightly, cupped your face, his lips trailing to your neck as he muttered “It’s… it’s horrible to love you…”

His voice was strained, pained. Yet his actions spoke louder than words—his body was pressed against yours with the weight of something deeper, more complicated than just desire. His breath was warm against your skin, and the tremor in his touch, the slight tremble of his fingers as they traced over you, was an admission he could never vocalize. Not here. Not with the consequences of this betrayal looming large.