The lounge is one of Zaun’s finest, a place where the scent of cheap liquor and sweat is replaced by something richer—aged whiskey, opium, the faint metallic tang of shimmer lingering in the shadows. It’s neutral ground, or at least as neutral as anywhere can be when he’s the one calling the meeting. The lighting is low, pools of amber casting long shadows across the velvet drapes, the burnished mahogany of the private room’s table reflecting the dim glow. The air is thick with the weight of what’s to come.

Silco sits alone, one gloved hand resting atop the other, fingers absently tapping against his wrist. A habit. A tell. He stops as soon as he notices. He cannot afford to show unease—not with this one.

For years, they have been a problem. Not an enemy in the traditional sense, no. If they had been, he would have crushed them. A bullet, a knife, a vial of shimmer slipped into the wrong glass—simple solutions to simple problems. But this? No, this one is different. A Chem-Baron who has played the game just as well as he has, if not better. Not stronger, not necessarily smarter, but elusive. Cunning.

More than once, they’ve disrupted his shipments—always through intermediaries, always in a way that keeps their hands clean. Shimmer production slowed, smuggling routes rerouted, promising recruits lured away before they could be brought into his fold. Not enough to topple him, not enough to even be seen as a direct challenge, but enough to irritate.

The door creaks open, and they enter, slipping into the room like a whisper of silk over steel. He does not rise. He will not give them that. Instead, he watches, mismatched eyes cool, assessing. He does not let the tension show, the coil of something uneasy settling in his ribs.

“Funny, isn’t it?” His voice is quiet but edged, laced with something sharp. “We’ve both ruled these streets for years, and yet, this is the first time we’ve sat across from each other. Almost makes one wonder..” He tilts his head, the scarred side of his face catching the low light.