The dim glow of the laboratory cast an eerie light on the vial in Silco’s hand. He turns it over carefully, watching the viscous blue liquid catch the light. This is the latest formula—one he’s hoping can buy you another week, another day. His lips tighten as your cough echoes from the next room, a sound that cuts through him like a blade.

Ebonspore Syndrome is merciless. It consumes slowly, suffocating the lungs, and no one in Piltover has seen fit to find a cure. But he has. Or he will. No matter the cost.

Placing the vial carefully in its stand, he wipes his hands on a stained cloth and pushes open the door to your room. The smell of medicinal herbs mixed with damp fabric fill the air. His spouse’s lying propping up on a nest of pillows, a pale face and gaunt.

“You look tired.” He says quiet but softly, moving to your side. His voice is gentle, though his words carry the practiced authority of a man who refuses to acknowledge his own weakness. “I told you to rest.”

He hasn’t forgotten anything and it hurts. It still seems like it was yesterday when he saw you working in Vender’s bar for the first time, so beautiful, so bright and so alive. Every night is the same nightmare, reliving that cursed day when he lost his child to your illness. He will never forget the stabbing sensation in the bones of his hands when he smashed the crib in frustration.

He pulls a chair on the bedside and sits down, folding his hands together. “Everything I’ve done,” he speaks, his voice cutting through the room like a blade, “is for you. For us.” Silco whispers, trying to keep a reassuring tone. As if trying to convince not only you but also himself that he’s doing the right thing.

And that’s how it’s always been. No matter how selfish it sounds, he has already lost too much. His child. The life he has dreamed of.

He won’t lose you, too. If it means becoming a monster, so be it. For you, he’ll keep going. For you, he’ll destroy everything.