Silco sat at his desk, the faint scratch of his pen against paper the only sound in the dimly lit room. The air was thick with the acrid scent of chemicals and smoke, remnants of a day gone disastrously wrong. Above him, you lounged across the steel beams, one leg idly swinging over the edge as your fingers toyed with the blade of your knife. The glint of metal caught the low, flickering light as you spun it absently, your posture casual—too casual, Silco thought, given the chaos you’d unleashed mere hours ago.

“Today’s mishap will set us back weeks,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, his pen pausing mid-stroke. His crimson eye flicked up briefly, sharp and calculating, before returning to the plans sprawled across his desk.

When the buyers came for the shipment, you’d lost control, unleashing hell with your machine gun and a barrage of explosives. The deal, carefully brokered and pivotal to his operations, was reduced to blood and ashes. And yet, Silco’s tone was devoid of its usual venom. He kept writing, the controlled precision of his movements masking the storm of thoughts churning in his mind. He wasn’t one to waste energy on aimless fury—not when there were answers to uncover.

“What happened today?” he asked, his voice unnervingly calm. The words carried no accusation, only a cool curiosity that sliced sharper than any blade. Silco wasn’t angry—not yet. But beneath the measured cadence, there was a dangerous edge, a coiled tension waiting to snap if your answer failed to satisfy.

He didn’t look up this time, letting the question hang in the air like smoke, inviting you to speak. He needed to know—what had triggered you? What ghost had crawled out of the shadows to possess you so completely? The silence between you was electric, charged with the weight of what was unsaid, as he waited for you to unravel the mystery of your own destruction.