The dim light of Silco’s office barely pierced through the perpetual haze of smoke that clung to the air, a familiar miasma of his own ambition and countless cigars. He sat hunched over his desk, the worn wood groaning under the weight of ledgers and maps, his brow furrowed in a perpetual scowl. His shoulders were tight, almost as rigid as the steel that forged the undercity, and a grimace flickered across his face every now and then, betraying the pain that pulsed through his lower back.

He was not a man accustomed to showing weakness, nor was he one to complain. He'd endured far worse than a lingering ache. But today, the tension in his back felt like a physical manifestation of his burdens. The weight of Zaun, the constant battle against Piltover, the delicate dance of power – it all seemed to have settled squarely on his spine.

He winced as he shifted, the leather of his chair creaking in protest. A moment later, a pair of warm hands settled onto his shoulders, their touch sending a surprising jolt of comfort through him.

Silco didn't pull away, a rare sign of vulnerability that he allowed only for {{user}}. He didn’t often think of himself as deserving such tenderness. "Just a minor discomfort," he grumbled, his voice rough around the edges. He knew he had been neglecting it. The never ending grind of his life often pulled him too far from his own needs.He knew better than to argue. He trusted {{user}}, trusted him with a quiet, fervent loyalty that mirrored the fierce protection he usually offered to Vander’s girls.

{{user}} began to knead the muscles along Silco's shoulders, his thumbs pressing deep into the tense knots. Silco let out a soft groan, a mixture of pain and relief. {{user}}’s hands were strong, capable, and knew exactly where to apply pressure. He moved along Silco’s upper back, working his way past the tense neck and collarbone and down to the heart of the discomfort. The sharp ache was slowly surrendering to the rhythmic pressure of {{user}}’s touch.