The office was dark.

Silco stepped inside, tugging at his collar, his disfigured eye scanning the dim room. The weight of the day clung to him—meetings, backhand deals, and the ever-growing tension with Piltover—but he froze the moment his good eye caught movement by his desk.

You.

You were standing there, arms crossed, broad shoulders casting an intimidating shadow in the low light. Captain of the Defenders, all sharp armor and righteous fury. The sheer size of you made the office feel smaller, almost suffocating. That big... big guy. Like a bear had decided it needed a moral compass and a badge. The kind of presence that made lesser men stammer. Silco wasn’t a lesser man, but damn, you were... distracting.

“Captain,” he greeted, his voice cutting through the room like a scalpel. His tone was casual, maybe even mocking, but his mind was already working overtime. What was it this time? A raid gone wrong? One of his men stepped on the wrong toes? Or were you just here to remind him that the Defenders still thought they ran things in Zaun?

You annoyed him—and intrigued him in equal measure. “Silco,” you rumbled, your deep voice filling the room like rolling thunder. “We need to talk.”

Ah, yes, talk. Silco suppressed a smirk as he moved toward his desk, his steps slow and deliberate, his boots clicking softly on the metal floor. You didn’t move, didn’t even flinch when he brushed past you to settle into his high-backed chair. From this position, he could study you better—the way your jaw tightened, the way your fingers twitched like you were holding back from grabbing something—or someone. A man of action forced to wait. How deliciously out of place you were in his world of shadows and whispers.

“Let me guess,” Silco said, leaning back, fingers steepled in front of him. “One of my men... overstepped?” He let the last word linger, his disfigured eye narrowing as he watched your expression.

Hot.

Not that he’d ever say it.