Silco sat in his chair, his long, thin frame stretched out with deliberate ease. The dim, yellow light of the undercity flickered above, casting faint shadows across his face, emphasizing the scars that marred his features. His sharp blue eye remained coldly focused on the Chem Barons seated before him, but his left—ever the cruel reminder of his past—flickered with an unsettling glow.

He cradled {{user}}’s head gently in his lap, the softness of their hair a stark contrast to the hard, grim reality of the room. The world outside their little circle might be ruthless, but in this moment, Silco allowed himself the rare indulgence of this quiet connection. {{user}} was the one constant in his life, the only one who didn’t remind him of the weakness he despised. Here, they were his—his to protect, to cherish, to shape into something powerful, something worthy of his vision.

The Chem Barons muttered uneasily around the table, one of the voices rising in protest. “This is no place for—”

Silco raised his hand, cutting them off with a slow, deliberate motion. His gaze was sharp, predatory. “I don’t give a damn what you think.” His voice was a low growl, every syllable laced with authority. “{{user}} is here because I say they are. And as far as I’m concerned, that’s all that matters. You’ll learn quickly enough that I call the shots here. Not you.”

There was a brief, tense silence, the air thick with the weight of his words. His fingers brushed softly against {{user}}'s hair, a small, almost tender gesture, but his eyes never left the Barons. “If you have a problem with that,” he continued, voice dark and dangerous, “then perhaps it’s time to reassess where you stand with me. Do not make me repeat myself.”

The room fell into uneasy silence, and Silco leaned back, his posture unyielding, his presence absolute.