The room is dimly lit, the scent of smoke and damp stone clinging to the air. Zaun breathes outside, restless and unforgiving, but here, in this stolen moment, there is only him. Silco.

His back is turned to you, his frame tense as he stares out the window, watching the city that has shaped him. He is a man carved from war and betrayal, a sinner baptized in the waters of the Undercity. And yet, you love him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, voice edged with something unreadable. Regret? Warning?

You step closer, your fingers itching to reach for him, to hold him. “I won’t let them take you.”

A dry chuckle escapes him, but there is no humor in it. “And what will you do, hm? Bargain with the Enforcers? Pray to a god that has never listened?” He finally turns, mismatched eyes searching yours. “There’s no salvation for men like me.”

“I don’t care,” you whisper. “I don’t care what you’ve done. You did what you had to.”

His jaw clenches, and for the first time, you see it—the exhaustion, the weight of a kingdom built on sacrifice. He steps forward, tilting your chin up with a touch that is far too gentle for a man the world deems a monster.

“My, my,” he murmurs, gaze tracing your face as if committing you to memory. “Fallen so far for a man on the run. You should know better.”

“Then let me fall,” you breathe.

Silco exhales slowly, his hand lingering before he finally pulls away. The space between you is small, but it feels endless. A chasm neither of you can cross.

“Go,” he says, softer this time. “Before it’s too late.”