#silco eats bees

[q8qwertyuiop8p]

Babe pls stop eating the bees 🙏

[mybelovedfleur]

,,𝐵𝑒𝓁𝓁𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓃𝓃𝒶" 𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝐼𝐼

(Yandere!Silco x Amnesiac!Fem!Reader)

!TW! FantasyAU! Heavy Yandere Themes, Silco is ooc for sure, vomiting, sick!reader, violence, mention of death, violence, dark yandere, I will tag every chapter seperately! :)

Description: ,, A series of unfortunate events causes you to completely lose your memory. Now, you find yourself thrust into the role of the Duchess of Zaun, married to a man you don’t recognize. But was this ever truly your life? And why does the scent of blood cling to you, no matter where you go? "

Note: english is NOT my first language, I am very much open for critique and suggestions but pls be nice and respectful :c I DO NOT support any of these behaviors!

─ ⊹ ⊱ -'♡'- ⊰ ⊹ ─

Silco leaned over you, concern in his eyes, as if the slightest sign of your pain hurt him just as much. He carefully adjusted the pillow so that you could comfortably rest your injured head on it.

"Do you feel worse? Should I get a doctor?" he whispered with tension in his voice, the trembling note betraying how much he cared about your health.

You haven't shown the slightest interest in leaving your bed all morning - a completely different behavior from your determination yesterday.

No wonder Silco noticed it right away. Seeing that you didn't even try to get up to eat breakfast, he became clearly worried. From that moment on, he constantly circled you like a tireless bee, trying to help you in every way possible. Instead of comforting you, his excessive concern began to irritate you - it was the first time he seemed so burdensome. You were overwhelmed by the dark memories of the nightmare that still weighed on your mind, and Silco didn't give you a moment's respite to simply delve into your own thoughts.

,,I feel like I always do, I just don't have the strength. It's nothing serious" you said, finally trying to calm him down. But Silco didn't look convinced. His gaze wandered over your body, as if stubbornly searching for something that could betray you

,,I have an important meeting today... " he whispered under his breath, clearly to himself, but you heard it clearly. You didn't have time to say anything, because his gaze fell roght back on your face.

,, It doesn't matter" he said in a confident tone, his voice firm" I'll stay with you"

If you had more strength, and the wound on the back of your head wasn't throbbing with irritating pain, you would have surely jumped up.

"No, please..." you said pleadingly, staring at him. "I don't want to be a burden again. You hardly leave my side anyway"

Silco froze for a moment, as if your words had hurt him more than he would like to admit. When he finally spoke, his tone was unexpectedly serious.

"Don't ever say that again" he said firmly.

You sighed, feeling the weight of guilt gripping your heart."I just don't want to stop you," you began quietly, struggling to gather your thoughts. 

"I want to prove to both of us that I can handle myself, even in times like these. If you go to this meeting... I'll be truly happy"

Silco stood up and began to pace nervously around the room, you could almost hear the grinding of his teeth. His hand involuntarily went to the scarred side of his face, which he rubbed as if trying to quell the growing frustration. You waited tensely, holding your breath, wondering if your words had angered him.

"The servants are well trained" he finally said, his voice full of reluctance, as if each word was difficult for him. "They know what to do. Don't hesitate to send for me if something happens, or if you simply need me."

His gaze finally met yours.

"I'll drop everything and come to you" he added with such intensity that you had no doubts about the sincerity of his words.

─ ⊹ ⊱ -'♡'- ⊰ ⊹ ─ 

It wasn't like you hadn't noticed the estate workers before – they were there, but rather like shadows moving in the background, silently carrying out your husband's orders. They were the ones who helped you with more intimate activities, such as changing or washing. Although it made things easier for you, you quickly noticed that Silco approached this matter with clear reluctance.

When you first asked for a new nightgown and the opportunity to wash up, he fulfilled your wish almost immediately. However, his reaction to this request exceeded your expectations - before you knew it, he was already filling the bathtub with water, sitting you on the stool next to it. When with unwavering determination he wanted to help you take off your clothes, you felt your face immediately turn red like a beetroot.

Embarrassed, you calmly asked him to let you do it yourself. His expression was hard to read - as if he was fighting with his thoughts. From that moment on, he waited for you outside the bathroom door, visibly anxious and even outraged whenever one of the servants helped you with something that he felt should have been his role.

 Now, you had a real chance to make contact with them, maybe even have a short conversation. Up until now, everything you knew about your life had come from Silco's mouth. His stories, while very romantic, were undoubtedly tinged with his feelings, perhaps even idealized – which was no surprise, considering the way he was devoted to his role as your loving husband.

The prospect of hearing something about yourself from an outsider, someone who wasn't emotionally attached to you, seemed almost exciting. It could be a chance to look at your life from a different perspective – and perhaps discover something new about yourself.

You were being looked after by three women: two middle-aged and one clearly younger. They were all dressed in impeccably ironed black uniforms that emphasized their professionalism. They moved around you with mechanical precision – their movements were so perfect and synchronized that they almost resembled some sort of machines. Silco wasn't exaggerating when he said that they were highly trained.

 Your ambitious plans to start a conversation didn't go so well at first. You were too nervous, and their distant attitude only increased your embarrassment.

It was only when the younger girl was left alone in the room to change the sheets on the bed that you felt it was the right moment to speak up. So you broke through, saying the first words

"What's your name?" you asked, trying to make your voice sound natural, although you yourself felt slightly embarrassed. The girl, noticeably surprised, stopped for a moment, as if wondering what she should do, whether to answer you at all.

 A moment of silence passed, which seemed to last forever, before finally, with a nervousness in her voice, she answered

"Erin, my lady"  she somehow radiated a warmth that immediately worked in your favor, and you felt your self-confidence begin to grow.

"Erin" you repeated. 

You noticed how the girl visibly relaxed, and a delicate, almost shy smile appeared on her face.

"Tell me, how long have you been working here?" she put down the pillow she was working on and finally turned her full attention to you.

"Only a month, Ma'am" she replied. As soon as you heard her words, you sighed with resignation.

"The entire staff has been here for a month" she added quickly. At these words, you looked up, and your eyes narrowed in a sign of dissatisfaction and suspicion.

"How so?"

The girl, now clearly regretting speaking, began nervously adjusting her uniform.

"The Duke replaced the entire staff after your accident," she explained quickly, as if these words were supposed to calm the situation, although they had the opposite effect.

You wanted to ask for details, for reasons, for what exactly had happened, but before you could say anything, the door flew open. One of the older women entered the room with a silver tray full of medicines.

The older woman gave the girl a reprimanding look that was telling enough for the young maid to immediately return to her work, lowering her gaze like a guilty child.

When the servants finished their duties, both women bowed low and asked if you needed anything else. You forced yourself to briefly deny it, even though your thoughts were screaming to stop them and force out more information. A moment later, the door closed behind them, leaving you alone in the room, again.

─ ⊹ ⊱ -'♡'- ⊰ ⊹ ─ 

By the end of the day, your strength had returned, at least enough to get out of bed and sit on the edge. You still felt a slight weakness in your legs, but the knowledge that at least you had managed to overcome your constant fatigue was comforting. On the nightstand stood a silver tray of medicines – the same tablets whose bitter taste made you nauseous, and whose effects locked you in a numbing fog. You looked at them with reluctance, the dark purple – almost black liquid standing in the cup almost made you nauseous by its very sight. A decision was made in your head – not now. You would use this moment, when your body finally did not betray you, and Silco did not hover nearby like a guard watching over a prisoner.

Without the constant feeling of sleepiness, you finally felt like your thoughts were your own—clear, clear, unencumbered by the fog of medication. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you could look at your situation clearly. For days, weeks, maybe even longer, you felt like Silco had not only taken control of your life, but also of what you thought and felt. His words, his presence, even his care—all seemed to shape your reality.

But now, as that grip eased, the truth began to weigh on you, something here was wrong. The situation you found yourself in was far from normal, no matter how beautifully Silco tried to present it. There were too many of his versions of events in this story, his sweet promises, his comfortable half-truths. And the answers you were desperately searching for? There were none. There were only gaps, silence, and then his narrative again. You could see it clearly now—and it was that clarity of mind that made the weight of it all seem unbearable.

You knew that if you wanted to regain even a shred of sanity, you had to get out of this room—this claustrophobic prison where everything seemed to reek of control. You wanted to feel the fresh air, to touch the earth in the garden that had only existed for you as a view through closed, unyielding windows.

But you couldn't. Your body was betraying you, just as it had been betraying you all these days. You knew that if you tried, your legs would give out and you would eventually collapse to the floor—helpless, weak, unable to even get up. The arms that should have held you up would fail. Your imagination showed you the image of Silco entering the room, of you lying there—motionless, completely defenseless, yet more proof that you should have listened to his commands.

The thought squeezed you from the inside, and the frustration you had tried to suppress surged like a wave. You felt the stinging tears welling up in your eyes, the helplessness choking you in your throat. You yearned for freedom so much, but you were a prisoner of your own body.

As if all that wasn't enough, you still felt the weight of your nightmare from today, never leaving you. It lingered in the back of your mind like a persistent shadow, blurry but still clear enough to send shivers down your spine. There was something disturbingly familiar about the nightmare, something that wouldn't leave you alone.

Raised voices could be heard from behind the door leading to Silco's office. They were muffled, but their tone indicated that this was no ordinary conversation - it was an argument. You easily recognized one of the voices as Silco's. The other voice, however, was unfamiliar to you, although unlike your husband, he didn't care about the volume of his tone, probably not knowing that someone on the other side could hear them, the words were still too distorted for you to understand anything.

Your eyes automatically went to the tray of medicines, and then to the door leading to the office. Common sense told you to stay in bed, but something else - curiosity, anxiety, maybe even instinct - told you to act. Pushing aside all logical thoughts, you slowly shifted on the bed, trying to get closer to the source of the sound. However, despite your efforts, the voices were still indistinct, and frustration grew inside you.In a burst of courage—or perhaps mad stupidity—you decided to do something more. 

You grabbed the bed frame, bracing your shaking hands on it, and struggled to your feet. The wall was your only support as you took your first step toward the door.

When you reached your destination, your heart started beating faster, but this time not from the effort, but from relief. You made it – for the first time, you had crossed the entire room without anyone's help. But that feeling of pride only lasted a moment, because suddenly you heard the slam of the office door and quick footsteps, clearly heading your way. Your heart froze in your chest. You didn't have time to back up or think about what to do. 

The door opened abruptly, almost hitting you in the face. You were leaning against the door frame and the handle to keep your balance, but the sudden movement took away all of your support. The world around you blurred, and you felt yourself starting to fall. Before you could touch the floor, you felt strong hands grab you at the last moment. 

The grip was firm, almost too strong, you looked up and looked straight into Silco's eyes, which shone with something between surprise and irritation. His face was drawn, as if he was fighting to keep from exploding with anger, but you could clearly see the shadow of concern that was breaking through his mask of composure.

"What are you doing?" he hissed quietly, his voice laced with a mixture of anger and concern.

Silco wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you closer, so that your faces were almost at the same level. You felt his hands grip your waist tightly, holding you in place as if to make sure you didn't disappear from his field of vision. His gaze was intense, piercing, but you avoided it, lowering your gaze and whispering barely audibly:

"I heard noises outside the door... I got scared" your voice was shaking. Silco narrowed his eyes, then looked away, glancing over your shoulder as if searching for something behind you. But that only lasted a moment. His gaze quickly returned to you - now full of irritation, and his expression changed as if someone had turned off the mask of composure he always wore.

"Why didn't you take your medicine?" he asked, anger growing in his voice.

 "Why are you trying so hard to disobey me?!" before you could say anything, his hands moved to your shoulders, gripping them tightly, his voice growing increasingly tense. Before you could protest, you felt him shake your body. Not hard, but enough to force you to look him in the eyes. His hands seemed to desperately hold you to him, as if they were trying to force you into obedience. 

"Look at me" he growled, his voice shaking, but it wasn't just anger anymore. There was something else in his eyes, behind the facade of anger - fear.

Your gaze remained fixed on your hands clasped on his torso, however, Silco clearly had no intention of waiting for your reaction. In a burst of frustration and desperation, his hand moved to the back of your head, grabbing a spot that had not yet healed. Before you could react, he forced you to lift your head and look him straight in the eye.

Pain exploded like fire, spreading throughout your body, and a sudden, suffering cry escaped your lips. Silco froze, as if he had only just realized what he had done. His hand immediately let go of your head, and the rest of your body recoiled in terror, it was enough for your tired legs to give out. You fell to the floor, with nothing to hold on to.

For several long seconds, Silco stood motionless, as if what had happened was unreal to him. His gaze, filled with anger a moment ago, now seemed as if something inside him had snapped.

As you lifted your gaze, trying to catch your breath and control the pain, something about the image before you seemed strangely familiar. Silco stood still, his silhouette silhouetted against the warm glow of the dying fire in the fireplace, but your eyes could no longer focus on the details. The tears that had welled up in your eyes began to blur reality, and you felt as if the room had suddenly become dark.

You blinked once, then twice, and the image before you changed. Instead of a room, you saw something that resembled a scene from a nightmare. Silco stood before you in the rain, his clothes soaked through, drops running down the material in a rhythmic, almost hypnotic pace.

The entire figure seemed to be taken from another world, yet terrifyingly real at the same time. The only thing that remained clear in this illusion was his injured eye. It glowed in the darkness like a cursed light.

You didn't know if it was a memory, a hallucination caused by the pain, or something more. But one thing was certain - at that moment the line between reality and nightmare began to blur, and you felt like you were drowning in this darkness, the epicenter of which was him.

You curled up on the floor, burying your face in your shaking hands. Tears flowed steadily, hot and stinging, as if burning paths into your skin. The pain, both physical and mental, seemed to take over every aspect of your existence.

"Drink," you heard suddenly, his voice hard, almost impervious to argument.

Before you could protest, you felt Silco lift you off the floor. His movements were surprisingly gentle, though you could feel his hands shaking.

Before you knew what was happening, a silver goblet touched your lips. The dark liquid, the sharp smell of which filled your nostrils, was thick, viscous, its bitter taste immediately hit your taste buds, almost causing a gag reflex, but Silco didn't stop

"Drink" he repeated, this time more insistently, and his free hand held your face, not letting you turn away

You felt the liquid pour into your mouth, and he forced you to swallow. His hand, although shaking, was unwavering, and his gaze was focused on only one thing, regardless of your protests.

When he finally moved the cup away from your lips, you felt the remnants of the liquid run down your chin, leaving a sticky trail on your skin. A few dark drops landed on your nightgown, staining the delicate material.

Your body began to betray you – weakened and tired, unable to fight any longer. Your head fell limply, and Silco gently supported it and placed it on his lap. His touch, although full of anger a moment ago, now seemed almost tender.

You felt a piece of his shirt wipe your face. It was a rough, yet surprisingly caring attempt to wipe away the tears, the traces of liquid, and the pain that seemed to be etched into your skin. His gestures were mechanical, as if he was trying to recreate something a loving husband should do.

Your eyelids began to close, heavy with fatigue and tears. You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of his presence surrounding you, although you didn't feel safe at all. It was more than resignation – it was capitulation to fate, to him.

─ ⊹ ⊱ -'♡'- ⊰ ⊹ ─

Taglist: @missbeeentertainment

Notes: I'm sorry if there is a lot of mistakes, I was writing it on my phone which has a polish auto correction, and I do not know how to turn it off :( Thank you so so so much for all your love and support, every time I see a notification I feel so grateful for every one of you! Thank you so much and hopefully see you again! <3

[aspenmissing]

I'm a huge fan of your "Eyes that never lie" and "A voice he still remembers" stories with Silco and Reader as his daughter (and also a simp for angsty stories..) And because I'd reallyy like to know, how Silco's life would look like after the death of his daughter, I thought about a little sequel after the events from Part 2:

I can imagine Silco beeing a shell of his former self, barely able of holding himself together. All of the emotions like sadness, grief etc. are slowly eating him up alive. Loosing his daughter for the second time was to much to bare. It is so worse, that even Sevika do not know how to handle this situation.

Silco sometimes hears her voice or gets sudden flashbacks from the past, where she was still a toddler or a small child. Which leads always to the last minutes of her life. He throws things through his office or screams as loud as he can, to vanish those pictures out of his mind. They are kinda similar to Jinx's episodes.

After a while, Jinx stands in his office and try to apologize to him. What Silco mad furious and they get in a pretty bad argument. Jinx wants to give him an apologies present, but he just screams at her. Sevika pulls (or nearly throws) Jinx out of his office and leaves Silco alone. While seeing Jinx's "present" at the floor.

When he takes a closure look he realizes, that it's a photo album. Jinx managed to steal one of the photo albums from the Talis house, which is all about Reader. There are pictures of her, pictures of Jayce and her etc.

He realized for the second time, how much of his daughter's life he missed.

Would you be able to write a story like this? 🫶

5 (6) ꜱᴛᴀɢᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ

ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ x ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ (ꜰᴇᴀᴛ. ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ/ᴊɪɴx) || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ-ɪꜱʜ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ || 7012 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: 5 ꜱᴛᴀɢᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ, ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴛᴀʟᴋꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ, ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ʜᴀʀᴍɪɴɢ (ɪɴ ᴛᴇʀᴍꜱ ᴏꜰ ɴᴏᴛ ᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ, ɴᴏᴛ ꜱʟᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ᴇᴛᴄ).

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴏᴋᴀʏʏʏ, ꜱᴏ ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪ ꜱᴀɪᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴏɴᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴋɪɴᴅᴀ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴀ ᴛʀɪᴏʟᴏɢʏ (ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ). ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏ, ꜱᴏ, ɪᴛ'ꜱ ꜱᴇᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ᴏɴᴇꜱ (ᴀꜱ ɢᴜᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴛʟᴇ), ꜱᴏ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ʀᴇɢᴀʀᴅʟᴇꜱꜱ. ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴍᴀʏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴡɪʙʙʟʏ-ᴡᴏʙʙʟʏ, ᴛɪᴍᴇʏ-ᴡɪᴍᴇʏ - ꜱᴏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɢᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɪᴛ). ʙᴜᴛ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ! ɢᴇᴛ ᴛɪꜱꜱᴜᴇꜱ ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ :) <3 <3

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1 || ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ | ᴊɪɴx

DENIAL

The room was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that pressed in from all sides, thick and suffocating, like a heavy fog rolling through Zaun’s winding streets and settling into the bones of his office. It wasn’t just the absence of sound, but the presence of something far worse — the oppressive weight of emptiness, a void carved out where life used to be.

Silco sat motionless behind the heavy oak desk, his fingers loosely clasped together on the polished surface, knuckles pale and trembling ever so slightly. The desk was a throne of memories and decisions that once shaped the fate of Zaun — but now, it was a mausoleum for a ghost he could neither touch nor forget.

His eyes stared at the dust motes swirling aimlessly in the shafts of weak light slipping through the grimy windows. They were glassy, unfocused, the vibrant fire that once burned in them now reduced to cold embers. Time had become meaningless. Minutes dripped slowly like the leaky pipes beyond his office walls, stretching into an eternity of suspended breath.

On a chair nearby, the linen sheet remained folded with careful precision — a small act of control in a world unravelling. It carried her faint scent, like a whisper from a dream just out of reach, ghostly and impossible to grasp. He had wrapped Y/N in that fabric with trembling hands, trying desperately to mask a wound too deep to ever heal, too raw to see without agony. The white cloth looked spotless, but to Silco, it was stained with the icy permanence of death.

He did not blink. He did not move.

His mind was a fractured mirror, reflecting shards of memories sharp enough to draw blood.

He saw her as she once was — a small child chasing sunlight through Zaun’s winding alleys, giggling freely without a care. Her small hand had been warm in his, the tiny fingers curled trustingly around his own rough ones. The sound of her laughter echoed in his ears — bright, innocent, a bell ringing through the dark corners of his soul. “Papa, look! I caught the sunlight!” Her voice, light and full of wonder, fluttered like a delicate bird in the silence. He felt the softness of her cheek pressed gently against his shoulder during restless nights, her breath warm against his skin, the fragile bond between father and daughter that had seemed unbreakable. “Stay with me, papa... don’t let the nightmares catch me.” The whisper was barely audible, trembling with a child's vulnerability, yet it had been a plea soaked in trust.

But then, the mirror cracked.

The joyous images shattered violently, replaced by a vision so cruel it burned his mind like acid.

Her final moments: the ragged rasp of breath slipping away; the way blood stained the pristine white linen he had wrapped her in; the too-brief silence that followed — a silence that screamed louder than any sound. Her eyes flickered, fighting to hold on, but the light within them dimmed. With a final, fragile gasp, she whispered, “Don’t… forget… me…”

He blinked hard, trying to banish the nightmare clawing at the edges of his consciousness.

“No,” he whispered hoarsely, voice barely audible even to himself. “No. Not this.”

But the mind has no mercy. It is a cruel prisoner master that refuses to listen to commands or pleas. It drags the soul into endless loops, dragging Silco through a relentless nightmare he cannot wake from.

His breathing faltered, chest tightening like iron bands squeezing his ribs.

He closed his eyes tightly, forcing himself to remember something else — anything else.

Her smile.

The one she reserved only for him, when she thought no one was watching. A fragile light in a dark world.

The way her eyes sparkled with hope and mischief, untainted by the cruelty that awaited them all.

A memory of a stolen moment, her hand in his as they watched the first cracks of dawn bloom over Zaun’s industrial horizon.

He could almost feel the warmth again — a fragile flame flickering against the cold.

But even that was slipping away.

The heavy door creaked softly. Silco’s eyes snapped open. Sevika stood hesitantly at the threshold, her silhouette outlined by the dim hallway light.

Her voice was cautious, a fragile thread of concern woven through the silence. “Boss?” The single word trembled in the quiet like a lifeline. “Are you… are you okay?”

He did not answer at once.

When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow and rasping — a shadow of the commanding tone it once was.

“I’m fine.”

Sevika’s brow furrowed. She knew better. Always did.

But she stepped forward carefully, her footsteps muted against the worn wooden floor.

The room smelled faintly of damp earth, rust, and something else — something deeper, darker. A scent that clung to the air like a shroud.

Despair.

She looked at the folded sheet, swallowing hard.

“I—” Her words faltered and died. “I’m sorry,” she finally said softly, “You can’t carry this alone.”

Silco’s eyes burned with quiet fury, but his voice was soft as he corrected her. “I’m not carrying her.” He paused, the weight of the truth sinking into the silence. “I’m holding her.”

Sevika’s throat tightened. There was nothing more to say. He stood slowly, with a stiffness born of pain and exhaustion. His joints protested with a dull ache as he moved toward the window.

Outside, the rain blurred the world, painting Zaun’s grime and grit into a watercolour of grey.

The city moved on without him. Without her

Children ran and shouted in puddles. Vendors hawked their wares. The noise of life continued — relentless, indifferent.

But Silco was frozen in time, locked in a moment that refused to end. The past clawed at the edges of his mind. A sudden sound pierced the quiet — faint but unmistakable.

A child’s laughter.

Delicate, distant, like an echo from a long-forgotten dream. He gripped the windowsill so hard his knuckles turned white.

“Y/N…” he breathed, voice breaking like fragile glass.

No answer came.

Only the rain. Only the crushing silence. And the unbearable ache of a father who refused to believe his daughter was gone.

ANGER

The rain had stopped outside, but inside Silco’s office, a storm raged unchecked.

The air hung heavy and suffocating, thick with tension, and the sharp metallic scent of something broken—not just glass or metal, but the splintered fragments of a soul fracturing under unbearable weight.

Shards of glass glittered like cold, cruel stars across the floor—the remnants of a once-proud window, shattered moments ago by a fist that knew only fury and despair. The jagged edges caught the dull light filtering through grime-coated panes, mocking the ruins of a man undone.

Silco stood amidst the chaos, chest heaving wildly like a caged beast desperate to escape, breaths coming fast, harsh, ragged—raw and ragged as a war cry born from shattered hope. His broad frame trembled with the violence of emotions roiling beneath skin taut with pain. His hands, curled into claws, flexed and twitched with nervous energy, nails digging into palms as if to hold himself together.

The room was a battlefield of destruction and grief.

Torn papers littered the floor in wild disarray—plans, maps, ledgers—once meticulous records now scattered like autumn leaves caught in a violent storm. A chair lay overturned, legs scrabbling helplessly against the ground as if thrown by an unseen force.

His prized map of Zaun’s districts hung wounded on the wall—slashed through with a jagged gash that cut clean through the heart of the city he had fought so hard to build. That wound was a mirror for his own—ragged and bleeding.

Silco’s face twisted into a grimace, not of hatred exactly, but something darker and deeper—anguish sharpened into fury, a raw, seething grief that had no outlet but destruction. He had tried for weeks to hold the storm inside, to carry the weight of Y/N’s death with cold, hard dignity—but the dam had finally broken.

He screamed. The sound tore from his throat, guttural and primal, a mixture of rage, heartbreak, and pleading all at once.

“Why?” His voice cracked and echoed off the cold stone walls, bouncing back at him in mocking repetition. “Why her? Why again? Why?!”

The question wasn’t just for the empty air—it was a desperate, anguished demand hurled at the universe, at fate, at the cruel gods who had stolen the light from his life.

The door creaked open slowly.

Jinx stepped inside, hesitant, clutching something hidden behind her back. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale—every line of her posture an awkward apology.

“Silco...” she began, voice trembling with an uncertain mix of guilt and hope. “I… I brought you something.”

Silco’s head snapped toward her, fury redoubling like molten steel ignited.

His hand shot out with brutal speed, knocking the object from her fingers before she could even set it down. The thing—a worn photo album—tumbled to the floor with a soft thud, pages fluttering like wounded wings.

“Don’t,” he snarled, voice low and vicious, “Don’t bring me your pity.”

Jinx’s lips quivered, eyes wide and searching, desperate for some crack in the fortress of his rage. She took a tentative step forward, but Silco’s glare stopped her cold.

“You think a book can fix this? A collection of your pretty memories?” he spat, voice rising. “Do you think these pictures bring her back? Or erase the blood on your hands?”

Jinx flinched as if struck, her whole body shrinking under the weight of his words. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I never wanted—”

“No!” Silco bellowed, cutting her off. “You killed her. You—”

“I didn’t mean to!” Jinx’s voice cracked, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I swear!”

But Silco wasn’t listening. His face twisted in fury and heartbreak, every breath shaking with rage. “You destroyed everything,” he growled. “Her life, our cause—me.”

Jinx opened her mouth to plead again, but Silco’s fury was an impenetrable wall.

Suddenly, without warning, the door slammed open wider and a rough hand grabbed Jinx’s arm—hard enough to hurt.

“Get out,” a sharp voice hissed from the shadows.

Before Silco could move, a firm hand grabbed Jinx’s arm—strong, unyielding.

Sevika’s grip was like iron, pulling Jinx backward with no room for argument. Jinx stumbled but did not fall, caught in the steady force that dragged her away from the storm raging inside Silco’s office.

The last thing she saw before the door slammed shut was Silco, chest heaving, fists clenched so tight his knuckles gleamed white under the flickering light.

He did not look back.

Alone, Silco stood amidst the ruins of his office—surrounded by shattered glass, scattered memories, and a silence so thick it thundered louder than any storm.

The photo album lay discarded on the floor, its pages fluttering helplessly in the still air—forgotten, unread, unwanted.

BARGAINING

The weeks stretched on like a slow, cruel unravelling — each day bleeding into the next with the relentless weight of grief.

The storm that had once raged inside Silco’s office — violent, destructive, merciless — had not disappeared. It had simply lost its roar. Now it simmered quietly beneath the surface, a dull ache that pulsed beneath his skin like a twisted heartbeat gone horribly wrong. The fierce wildfire of rage and anguish had burned low, muting into a dark, raw desperation that seeped into every waking moment and invaded every shadowed corner of his mind.

His movements had become spectral, the motions of a man half-present, drifting through the ruins of a world that once held meaning. He no longer struck out in anger or paced with purpose. Instead, he wandered — a ghost among the broken glass, the overturned chair, the scattered papers that whispered of shattered plans and futures lost. His eyes, once sharp and fierce, now flickered uncertainly, reflecting a candle flame flickering and struggling against the choking, unrelenting wind of despair.

The office remained untouched — untouched and frozen in time, like a mausoleum built of sorrow and silence. The shattered window, broken in his fit of rage, had been patched crudely with whatever scraps were at hand — a piece of weathered metal, a thin, cracked pane of glass held fast with bits of tape. It was a painful, makeshift scar — a reminder not only of the physical destruction, but of a man broken, wounded deep beneath his surface, not yet ready to heal.

In the dim corner of the room sat the photo album Jinx had brought — its leather cover cracked and worn, pages curling slowly from neglect and dust. It was a fragile vessel of memories, but Silco did not touch it. He did not dare. It was a weight he could not bear, a gateway to a past too sharp and bright for his fragile state. The album sat, silent and still, untouched as the days slipped by.

=

Night was the cruellest time. When the constant hum of Zaun’s machinery and the distant shouts and cries from the streets died down to a low murmur, the silence pulled at Silco’s mind with relentless force. The memories came crashing in — vivid and merciless, overwhelming like a tidal wave breaking through a dam.

He saw her again.

Y/N.

Her face bathed in the soft light of dawn, eyes catching the sun’s first rays with a sparkle that made the world fall away. Those eyes—so full of hope, so fierce and alive—haunted him in the quiet moments when the city held its breath.

He heard the warmth of her laughter — bright, unrestrained, spilling freely through the small home they had shared, echoing like a melody in his chest. It was the kind of laughter that could ignite the darkest rooms, and yet, now it felt like a cruel reminder of what was lost.

He remembered the way she would trace the scars that marked his arms and hands — those jagged lines left by countless battles and betrayals — with fingers that trembled slightly, delicate and sure. She whispered to him, then, in a voice barely above a breath, that those marks made him stronger, that they were proof of survival, of fights won against impossible odds.

Those memories, once simple and pure, now tore through him like shards of glass, slicing open the fresh wound inside his chest. The pain gnawed and clawed at his insides, sharp and insatiable — a living thing that would not be soothed or silenced.

In the desperate silence of his nights, Silco found himself caught in a bargain with a cruel and indifferent fate, a conversation with a force that had taken everything from him.

If only...

If only he had held her hand tighter that day.

He could see the moment with agonizing clarity — the slipping of her fingers from his grasp, the impossibility of catching her before the darkness swallowed her whole. “Don’t... forget... me...”

If only he had been faster, stronger —

Stronger than the unseen forces that had stolen her away, faster than the cold hands of death itself.

If only there was some way to undo what had been done.

Some secret, some miracle, some forgotten magic he could unearth.

In the thick, suffocating darkness of the night, Silco’s voice would break through the silence, raw and hoarse, as though speaking aloud might tear a hole in reality and bring her back.

“Please...” he whispered, his words trembling like fragile glass in the still air. “If there’s still some spark left... some fragment of her — don’t let it die. Don’t let her fade away.”

His voice was barely more than a breath, fragile and desperate.

“I’ll do anything.”

The confession hovered in the stale, heavy air. A broken promise to a ghost.

“Anything at all.”

Sometimes he sank to his knees, one trembling hand pressed against the cold stone floor as if willing her presence to seep through the cracks beneath him, as if willing the impossible to become real.

=

Daylight found him hunched over the city’s map once more, fingers trembling as they traced the jagged scar carved cruelly across Zaun — a wound that mirrored the one tearing open his heart.

The map was battered and worn, like everything else in his shattered world. It bore the marks of battles fought and lost, territories once under his iron grip now slipping through his fingers like smoke. His fingers lingered on the faded lines—old alliances broken, blood-stained streets where power had shifted, and trust had become a currency long spent and utterly worthless.

In the quiet of his office, Silco imagined reopening those broken bonds. He pictured deals forged in whispered promises, exchanged in shadowed corners thick with the scent of sweat and desperation. Mercenaries, smugglers, alchemists — all names he called upon in his mind, those who might wield forbidden knowledge, hidden magic, or forgotten rites rumoured to bend the laws of life and death themselves.

Every whispered myth, every half-forgotten rumour murmured in the darkest corners of Zaun became a lifeline — a fragile thread he clung to amid the spiralling void of his despair.

=

His nights were no sanctuary. Instead, they became haunted battlegrounds of memory, ghosts swirling and clawing at the edges of his consciousness.

He saw her smile — that rare, unguarded curve of lips she reserved for moments when the weight of the world softened just enough to let joy through.

He remembered the evenings they’d spent side by side, her head resting lightly against his shoulder as they watched the flickering lights of the city stretch into the distance. They spoke softly then, of dreams and futures, fragile hopes they’d once dared to believe in — a future that now seemed like a cruel, unreachable mirage.

Her voice echoed in the depths of his mind, soft and steady, urging him to hold on — to keep fighting for the city they loved, for the people who still needed him.

But when the echo faded, the silence that swallowed her absence was unbearable.

More than once, he found himself speaking aloud in the stillness of the office, as if his words might reach across the cold gulf and find her — as if his voice alone could bridge the impossible distance.

“I’ll make it right,” he vowed, voice raw and breaking beneath the weight of his sorrow. “I’ll find a way. I swear it.”

Yet beneath the fierce promises and stubborn hope, a darker truth lurked — one he could neither deny nor escape.

He had no idea how.

And still, beneath all that grief and crushing loss, something stubborn burned within him.

Not acceptance. Not peace.

But a fierce, raw will.

A flickering ember of hope that refused to die. He was not ready to let the light fade forever. He would bargain.

He would beg.

He would claw at the edges of fate itself — tear it apart, unravel it thread by thread if he had to — for one more chance.

One more chance to hold her hand again.

Because to do nothing — to surrender to the silence, to give in to the emptiness — was a fate far worse than death.

And Silco was not a man who could give up.

Not yet.

DEPRESSION

The months bled into one another like spilled ink on cracked parchment — indistinguishable, endless, cruelly unkind. Time no longer marched forward; it slithered and stalled, dragging Silco through a mire of hollow hours and empty days that bled indistinctly into sleepless nights.

Silco no longer lived. He merely existed.

Once, he had been a force of nature — a blazing storm of raw will and cunning fury that ruled Zaun’s shadowed underbelly with iron certainty. His name struck fear into the hearts of kings and criminals alike. He was fire and steel, a living tempest that carved his empire from chaos. Now, that fire was all but snuffed out, reduced to a faint ember buried deep beneath layers of ash and ruin.

He was a husk — a broken vessel wandering a landscape of desolation carved by grief. His soul felt stripped bare, raw and bleeding from a wound that refused to heal. The crushing weight of loss pressed on his chest like a relentless vise, squeezing out every flicker of hope or light until only an abyss remained — dark, cold, and infinite.

He moved through his days on a cruel autopilot, limbs twitching and dragging without purpose or intention. His body obeyed the faintest echo of habit, the barest remnant of routine, like a marionette pulled by invisible strings. His legs carried him through the cracked streets and broken rooms, his hands fell to rest on cold, familiar surfaces, but his mind was elsewhere — adrift in a fog so thick it dulled every sensation and thought.

His eye, once sharp and commanding, now stared blankly into space — glassy, unfocused, as if seeing through the world rather than within it. They flicked without interest or recognition, catching on nothing, reflecting only a grey haze of exhaustion and despair. When he looked at those around him — the twisted alleys, the crumbling buildings, the ragged faces of Zaun’s people — there was no spark left, no fire to light his gaze. He was a ghost haunting a city of ruin.

The pain that had once jagged through his chest like broken glass was now a dull, unyielding ache, a heavy fog settled in his bones. It was as if the sharp edges had been worn away by the relentless passage of time, leaving only a cold monotony — an ache so steady and pervasive it became a strange sort of comfort. The raw, burning agony was gone, replaced by a deep numbness that blanketed him like a shroud.

Time lost all meaning.

=

The sun rose and fell in endless, muted cycles, but Silco no longer noticed. The world outside his cracked window faded into a pale, washed-out blur of grey light that never brightened or darkened — a liminal place where day and night merged into one endless twilight. The sky was a dull canvas, smeared with faded clouds that hung low and heavy, reflecting the bleakness within him.

His body betrayed him more with each passing day. Hollow cheeks framed a face drained of colour, skin stretched taut over brittle bone. His movements became sluggish, mechanical, lacking the sharp precision that had once defined him. The muscles in his arms and legs weakened, trembling under the weight of exhaustion.

His hands — those once-commanding tools that had orchestrated alliances, threats, and violence — now shook with a frail, uncontrollable tremor. Fingers curled and uncurling, as if grasping at something just beyond reach, the faintest flickers of life struggling against the tide of despair.

Hunger ceased to be a signal of need and became a distant echo, a background noise in the emptiness. The chipped ceramic plate left untouched on the worn wooden table gathered dust and forgotten crumbs — a silent testament to a man who no longer cared to sustain himself. When food passed his lips, it was mechanical and flavourless, a faint crunch in a void where taste had long since fled.

Sleep, when it came, was no refuge. It was a battleground where rest was a casualty. The moment exhaustion dragged him into darkness, the nightmare tides pulled him under — relentless waves of memory and horror that shredded the fragile veil of peace.

=

In those haunted nights, he found himself once more standing on the edge of a vast, empty field — a place untouched by the grime and decay of Zaun. The horizon stretched wide and endless, bathed in the soft, golden light of dawn that spilled like warm honey across the landscape. The air smelled faintly of wildflowers and earth, pure and untainted.

There she was.

Y/N.

Alive.

Whole.

Her laughter rang out — a crystalline, joyous sound that pierced the silence and warmed the cold spaces inside him. Her presence was like sunlight, radiant and fierce, filling the empty field with a light that chased away the shadows. "Come on Papa! Join me!"

Her hair caught the dawn’s glow, haloed in gold, falling softly over her shoulders in gentle waves. Her eyes, those rare, unguarded eyes, shone with a bright hope that Silco had sworn to protect — fierce and fragile all at once, the last flicker of a world worth fighting for.

In these fleeting moments, the weight of his grief lifted, replaced by a bittersweet warmth that seeped into his bones and filled the hollow caverns of his heart.

For a brief, aching moment, there was light — pure and unbroken.

But the light was always fragile.

The golden warmth shattered like thin glass beneath his trembling fingers.

Her smile cracked and broke, splintering into shards of despair. The dawn dimmed, fading to cold grey. Darkness surged forward like a living thing — cruel, merciless, swallowing everything whole. Her eyes, wide with terror, searched for him. Her lips quivered, reaching out — silent, desperate "Why didn't you save me...You let me die!" before the shadows devoured her completely.

And then Silco awoke.

Gasping for breath in the suffocating dark, sweat clinging to his skin like cold rain.

His heart thundered fiercely in his chest, a relentless war drum echoing the loss that had become his world.

The chill of the night wrapped around him, biting deep — a brutal reminder of the void between dream and reality.

He was alone.

The waking world was a tomb of memories, a landscape haunted by ghosts and silence.

His mind was a storm — a merciless, roiling tempest where memories and nightmares crashed into one another with savage force. The laughter and whispered promises twisted into screams and shadows, dragging him ever deeper into a place where hope was a faint echo, fading into the dark.

Days blurred without shape or meaning, slipping like water through cracked fingers.

=

Weeks stacked upon one another like stones piled high on a forgotten grave, each heavier than the last.

His office — once a place of command and strength — had decayed into a tomb-like prison. The air hung heavy and stale, thick with dust that clung to every surface like a suffocating shroud. Cracked walls bore the scars of past battles, paint peeling like dead skin, while the once-sharp lines of maps and documents faded beneath layers of neglect.

The broken window remained — jagged shards of glass embedded in the frame like cruel reminders of a fractured past. The patchwork of rags and splintered wood did little to keep out the cold air that seeped through, chilling the room and gnawing at Silco’s bones.

The scent of dust, sweat, and the faintest trace of something long lost — a delicate, almost imperceptible trace of her — lingered in the heavy air like a whispered ghost. It crawled under his skin, a cruel reminder of the warmth that had been stolen from him.

Outside, the streets whispered his downfall. The name that once echoed with reverence now slipped from lips in tones of pity and doubt. Zaun’s people watched from the shadows, eyes flickering with a mix of fear, sorrow, and something close to contempt. The Chembaron had become a faded legend — a shadow of the man he once was, a broken king who had abandoned his throne.

But Silco no longer heard them.

He was beyond anger, beyond pride, beyond fear.

He had stopped fighting.

He had stopped hoping.

He had stopped living.

Sometimes, in moments of terrible clarity, he caught himself reaching out — a trembling hand extended into empty space, fingers quivering as if longing for a touch that was no longer there.

But there was nothing.

Only the cold void where once had been warmth, light, and life. He no longer cursed fate or pleaded with the dark gods for mercy.

There was nothing left to plead for.

His voice, when it came, was a fractured whisper — broken and raw, barely audible even to his own ears.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, a confession swallowed by the endless silence. “I’m so sorry.”

The pain had melted away, replaced by a crushing numbness that wrapped around him like iron chains.

The numbness had become a cage — cold, unyielding, invisible, yet impossible to escape.

And Silco was trapped within it. A broken king on a fractured throne. Surrounded by silence.

Alone with his ghosts.

ACCEPTANCE

Five months slipped by like shadows stretching across a broken city—slow, relentless, suffocating. Time in Zaun was measured not by clocks or calendars, but by the unending pulse of hardship and survival, the constant hum of machinery and despair. But inside Silco’s office, the world seemed to have frozen. The air hung heavy, thick with dust and the weight of things left undone.

It had been over a year since Y/N died—his daughter, the last piece of his heart ripped away before he could say goodbye. A year since the world betrayed him and stole her light, leaving only a hollow space where hope once lived. And yet, the ache in Silco’s chest remained unyielding—sharp as broken glass, raw and unrelenting. It was a weight he carried with him always, an invisible chain that held him hostage to the past.

Some days, the grief was a physical force, as if a vise clamped down around his ribs, squeezing the air from his lungs. He would sit motionless for hours in the cracked leather chair by the grimy window, the fading twilight bleeding through grime-streaked glass into his dim office. His eyes would fixate on the sprawling map pinned crookedly to the wall—the routes, the alleys, the borders of Zaun he’d once known like the lines on his own palm. But now those lines blurred into meaningless scribbles, a labyrinth with no way out.

He could no longer remember the shape of his own hand without feeling the phantom presence of Y/N’s smaller one nestled inside it. The quiet absence screamed louder than any explosion in the streets below. Her laugh, her protests, the way her eyes had sparkled with stubborn hope—even those memories seemed to mock him with their bittersweetness.

Outside, Zaun roared on—fires crackling in distant corners, shouts echoing down alleyways, sirens wailing like ghosts. The city never truly slept, but in Silco’s office, there was only silence. A silence so suffocating it felt like it might crush him beneath its weight.

=

At night, when the city’s chaos faded to a dull roar and the darkness crept in thick and heavy, the shadows gathered closer still. They whispered cruel thoughts in the corners of his mind—thoughts he fought to bury beneath layers of fury and bitterness.

The kind of thoughts that gnawed at the edges of sanity—the desperate yearning for escape, for release from a world that had taken everything. He found himself drifting further and further into that dark place, the one he dared not speak aloud.

The place where the burden of his loss became unbearable.

The place where he imagined the impossible.

Where he could see her again.

Maybe, just maybe, a quiet voice in the back of his mind whispered, maybe on the other side, she was waiting for him.

It was a dangerous thought. A poison he allowed himself to taste in the darkest hours when the pain was so raw it felt as if his heart might shatter like fragile glass.

There were nights he considered ending it all—not out of cowardice, but out of a broken longing. A longing to hold her one last time, to whisper the words he never said, to beg forgiveness for the moments he’d missed.

But somehow, those moments passed. The world pulled him back, cruel and indifferent. Duty, revenge, survival—the harsh necessities of Zaun kept him tethered to this broken life.

And yet, despite everything, the void inside him only grew deeper.

=

His days passed in a blur of grim meetings, whispered threats, and shadowed alliances. His once razor-sharp mind was dulled by exhaustion and grief. Orders came and went, but his spirit drifted aimlessly like a leaf on a poisoned stream.

His only companions were the ghosts of memories—the echo of Y/N’s voice in the quiet, the ache of an empty bed, the soft weight of absence pressing on his soul.

Then came the album.

He had resisted. For months, the album sat untouched, a monument to pain he wasn’t ready to face. To open it would be to relive every heartbreak—every moment he had missed, every smile he hadn’t earned.

Tonight, though, everything felt different.

The restless ache in his chest gnawed too loudly. The usual numbing haze of alcohol no longer dulled the edges of his grief. The room felt colder, the silence deeper, as if the very air waited for him to cross a line.

Drawn by some invisible thread, Silco’s stiff fingers reached out toward the dusty shelf where the album lay buried. His skin brushed the cold leather cover—rough, worn by time, fragile as the memories inside.

He hesitated, heart hammering against his ribs, breath caught in a fragile silence.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he opened it.

=

The pages whispered stories he had never known—fragments of a life lived without him, moments frozen in time and pain.

The first picture made his breath catch—a snapshot of Y/N as a small child, no more than six years old, standing shyly in the garden of the Talis family home. Sunlight dappled through the trees, casting a warm glow around her. Her smile was tentative but bright, a flicker of hope in eyes too old for such innocence. She looked like she belonged there—safe, if only for a moment.

Silco’s fingers trembled as he turned each page slowly, absorbing every photo with reverence.

There were pictures of birthdays, with balloons and homemade cakes, where Y/N’s laughter was caught in frozen time. Snapshots of quiet afternoons spent reading by the window, golden light pooling on the worn wooden floor. Photos of the Talis family—Mrs Talis with her gentle hands, Jayce’s proud grin as he stood behind her at her school recital, Mr Talis giving her a piggy back around the park.

Each image spoke of a life he had never seen, a childhood lived in warmth and care, far from the darkness he had known.

He lingered on a photograph taken just months before her death—Y/N at twenty-one, standing strong and poised, a soft smile playing on her lips, eyes filled with dreams yet unfinished. It was a cruel reminder of the future stolen from them both.

Silco swallowed the sharp ache rising in his chest. The album was heavy with all the love and loss, all the moments that had slipped through his fingers like smoke.

“Was she… happy?” The question broke free, fragile as glass.

No answers came, only the silent testimony of the photos before him.

But somehow, in the quiet of the room, Silco understood.

She had been loved—not only by him, but by others who held her when he could not. By a family who gave her a chance to breathe, to grow, to live.

He traced a finger over a picture of Y/N and Jayce, arms around each other, smiles wide and unguarded. That warmth—the laughter, the clatter of plates at family dinners, the stolen moments of peace—had existed, even if he had missed them all.

His breath hitched.

He closed the album slowly, the worn leather soft beneath his fingers, like holding a fragile promise.

For the first time since her loss, a crack opened in the armor around his heart—a fragile, aching hope.

He would never stop mourning her. He would never stop wishing for one more chance. But now, he could carry her memory differently. Not as a chain dragging him down, but as a light guiding him forward. Silco pressed his fingers to the cover again, silent and steady.

He would live on.

For her.

For the city she loved. For the hope that still burned—faint, stubborn, but alive.

Finding Meaning

The corridors of the Last Drop felt quieter than usual. The usual hum of whispered deals and clinking glasses had been replaced by a brittle, fragile silence, as if the very walls were holding their breath. For days, Silco had kept to himself, retreating into the shadows of his memories and the heavy burden of grief that clung to him like a second skin. His world had narrowed to the worn photo album resting on his desk — its pages worn and creased, full of frozen moments from a life he thought he understood until it shattered.

The album lay there now, unopened, but unmistakably present. Jinx’s eyes flicked toward it the moment she entered the room, an unspoken acknowledgment passing between them — she knew he had finally looked through it, finally seen everything she had hidden away in her own guilt.

She stood at the threshold, a ghost of herself. Her limbs trembled, a storm of restless energy contained only by sheer willpower. Her eyes were wide, haunted, flickering between defiance and fear, carrying the weight of too many years spent running from herself. Each hesitant step toward Silco felt like dragging her soul through fire.

The office was different than she remembered. For the first time in months, perhaps even years, it felt almost… orderly. The scattered papers and hastily scribbled plans had been cleared away. The walls were bare except for one faded photograph pinned above the desk — a quiet, stubborn reminder of what had been lost and what still lingered beneath the surface.

Silco looked up slowly from the dark wood of his desk, his eyes heavy but steady as they met hers. The years of pain, rage, and silence had sculpted his expression into something solemn and unreadable.

“Come in,” he said, voice calm, commanding, but not cold.

Jinx obeyed, stepping inside like a reluctant sinner walking into a confessional. The weight of the room pressed down on her, thick and suffocating — but also strangely familiar. The flicker of the candle on the windowsill cast long shadows, dancing quietly over the photo album’s leather cover.

For a long moment, they simply regarded each other in silence — two broken pieces of the same shattered world, brittle and raw.

Finally, Silco gestured to a worn leather chair across from him.

“Sit.”

Jinx lowered herself carefully into the seat, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, knuckles pale with tension.

“I wanted to see you,” Silco began, voice low and deliberate. “To talk.”

Her eyes flashed with a mix of hope and dread, a fragile balance teetering on the edge.

“Why now?” she asked, voice barely more than a whisper, trembling with uncertainty.

Silco took a breath, the familiar ache settling deep in his chest like a stone dragging him down.

“It’s been some time,” he said quietly, “and I’ve been thinking. Reflecting.”

He didn’t mention the album, but Jinx knew. She saw it there, on his desk — the heavy weight of memories, a lifetime folded into brittle pages.

Days after Y/N’s death, Silco had resisted. He had refused to confront those moments, fearing the flood of grief. But eventually, he’d sat down, one night long and lonely, and traced the faded photographs with rough fingers. The laughter, the innocence, the fragile smiles — all reminders of a world that had slipped away, and of a daughter lost not just to death, but to choices made in pain.

Jinx’s breath hitched.

Silco leaned forward, his hands resting on the desk like anchors to keep himself grounded.

“You weren’t the only one broken,” he said softly, voice cracked with old wounds. “I carried my grief like a weapon — but that weapon has only cut deeper into my soul.”

He paused, searching her face as if trying to find the girl he once knew beneath the rubble.

“And now… I think it’s time to put it down.”

Jinx’s eyes brimmed with tears she could no longer hold back.

“Silco,” she whispered, voice cracking under the weight of years, “I’m sorry. For everything.”

His lips tightened, and for a moment, he said nothing — letting her words hang like fragile glass between them.

“Do you understand what you did?” he asked, not accusing, but demanding honesty.

“I…” Her voice faltered. “I didn’t mean to. I was lost. Angry. Afraid. I don't know why I did it."

Her hands shook as she reached out instinctively, desperate to bridge the distance, but stopped short — unsure if forgiveness was even possible.

Silco stood slowly, crossing the room in heavy, deliberate steps. The tension in his shoulders softened as he reached out — and without a word, pulled her into a hug.

Her body stiffened, shock rippling through her. But then, like breaking ice, she melted into his embrace. The floodgates burst open.

Her sobs filled the room — raw, desperate, a symphony of regret and longing that clawed at the walls.

Silco held her steady, breathing in the weight of her brokenness, feeling the sharp edges of his own torment dull as he enveloped her in that moment.

After a long, heavy silence, Silco pulled back just enough to look into her tear-streaked eyes.

“My daughter is gone,” he said quietly, voice steady but thick with sorrow. “And no one will ever replace what we lost.”

He sighed, a sound full of both pain and resolve.

“But you… you’re still here. You’re still my family. And you need me.” His gaze softened, fierce and tender all at once. “That means something. To me.”

Jinx blinked, hope flickering like a fragile flame that might yet survive the storm.

Silco’s voice softened further, almost tender now.

“We build from the ruins. We protect what’s left. We find the light in the darkness.”

She nodded, trembling, clutching him like a lifeline.

“And maybe,” he added quietly, “we can find peace.”

The silence that followed was gentle, filled with unspoken promises and fragile hope.

Silco’s hand found hers, holding tight — a silent vow not just to forgive, but to rebuild.

For the first time in what felt like forever, a quiet fire stirred within him — a purpose born not from loss alone, but from the promise of what could still be.

[shimmerbeasts]

Vi's emotions were palpable. They lay in the sweat of panic and fear, and in the tremors and shakes of rage and anger. Jinx inhaled the smell with each breath and felt each moment Vi's legs shook. Noticing her sister's hands vigorously clawing at the rope to break free, Jinx placed a pale white hand upon her fingers and gingerly pushed them down to stop their frantic work. She purred softly, hoping to soothe the aggravated tiger.

Though at the same time, Vi's nervous energy affected her as well. Jinx had always been unpredictable - sometimes matching the energy in a room, sometimes not. It was this unpredictability which made her profoundly dangerous. And so, even around Vi, she was the monster, all bared teeth, nervous cackling, the cool barrel of her pistol almost an extension of herself, seeking out contact with Vi's body like a tongue seeking flesh, salivating oh, so eagerly. The smell of blood caused Jinx's head to dart sideways, taking note of the red caked against the ropes, from where Vi had rubbed her hands wound.

"Stop it", Jinx purred patiently like she spoke to a child. "You are just going to make it worse."

She raised a hand and palmed the side of Vi's face, her thumb eagerly searching for her sister's mouth like she had a claim to it. And why shouldn't she have? This was not the first time, Powder's fingers had been near her sister's mouth, brushing over her lips, feeling out her tongue, poking and prodding the fangs as they came in, pressing against her throat as she swallowed. Love was consumption. And Caitlyn, with her pretty kissable lips, was violating that claim every time she laid her mouth upon Vi's, every time she tried to push her tongue inside to explore deeper. Jinx could not let that happen.

Upon Vi's outburst, Jinx flinched backwards as if a bee had stung her. The barrel of her pistol lowered until it hung loosely to the side. Every one of Vi's words was like someone thrust a spear into her gut. This was not what she had wanted when Vi finally acknowledged that Powder had died. Jinx hadn't killed her. If she were honest, she did not know who had killed her. Silco? Vi? Jinx? Maybe all of them? Maybe none of them?

"She hates you, she hates you, she hates you - SHE. HATES. YOU!"

Her heart pounded in her chest, and her mouth burned like she had just shoved nettles into it. Mylo and Claggor crowded around Vi, dressed in the same outfits they had worn that fateful day. Claggor even still had the metal rod strapped to his backpack, which he had used to break down the wall. The same metal rod which had pierced Mylo's chest. Jinx desperately shook her head, disagreeing with the voice in her head and maybe also disagreeing with what Vi had said.

"I AM NOT AN ENFORCER!", Jinx blurted out, tone a blend of shrill rage and high panic. "How dare you call me that when your stupid little Bluebeard is right there?! You even live in her house! What's next? You gonna don the blue too? Get all chummy with her and her rifle-carrying buddies? You gonna let her eat you too?!" Her voice grew louder and louder with each word: "I didn't kill Powder! If anything, you did!"

Trembles rippled through her arms, down her spine, and Jinx could feel it around her legs as she sat on Vi’s lap. Her emotions shifted and twisted between rage and anger, fear and panic.

Desperation to escape leads her reaction. Her fingers flexed, clawing at the air as she struggled against the rope. The more she pulled, the more it bit into her skin as she shut her eyes closed tightly. She couldn’t break the cycle between knowing it was rope and experiencing the shackles of Stillwater. This house had been her safety, Caitlyn’s arms her safe place. Now she desperate try to fight to survive in this place that was suppose to be home.

Vi shook her head, trying to push back the terror of her thoughts and the flashback of memories. “Essh eeh oofh!” (Let Me go!) Anger ripped through her thoughts as she twisted her head toward Jinx. “EST! AFH EESH OFH!” (Bitch, take these off!) Vi shouted, not repeating her word but angrily lashing into Jinx.

Jinx’s movement caused her to kick her feet out, but they didn’t move from being bound to the lead of the chair and she couldn’t get away from the demon in front of her. Her heart raced underneath her shirt, beating faster the normal. Vi feared for her life as the monster in front of her twisted and shifted.

Worse was the unpredictable nature changing. Between the gritted teeth and lashing out and now laughing and pull the gun on her. Vi jerked her head backwards, staring at the barrel. There was no punching, no way to stop this. She pulled harder on the ropes, as they rubbed harder against her wrist to the point they had started to bleed.

She moved her face away from the cold barrel. A cough left her lips, finally that muzzle ripped from her face. “YOUR AS BAD AS THE ENFORCERS!” Vi shouted suddenly, a bit of drool had dripped down her chin, that gag leaving her unable to stop it from happening. “YOUR NOT MY SISTER!” Vi screamed, as a few tears fell from her eyes to actually admit it. The crack of a whip caused Vi to flinch, another flashback from the prison, hitting her back. She pulled on her wrist, unable to break out of her ropes, the shackles of her own memory. She couldn’t scream, she couldn’t cry, the enforcers would enjoy it too much.

And yet, the tears would still fall, the pain cutting into her body. Even now, blood streaked down her hands as she desperately fought to get out of the ropes. “My sister... wouldn’t tie me up,” Vi whispered as she shook her head. “My Sister, wouldn’t put a gun to my face. My sister... why did you kill my sister?” Vi questioned, her lip trembling, as she turned to look at Jinx.

“WHY DID YOU KILL HER?” Spit shot from her lips at the scream, anger mixed with sadness and panic. “You killed her, just like the enforcers killed our parents! Let me go, let me go, LET ME GO!” She thrashed around, falling into panic again.

[skullywullypully]

[a-gal-with-taste]

Baked And Battered (2/3)

Summary: It's the classic story: Boy meets girl, Sumpsnipe meets Promenade-brat, baker meets rebel. And then it becomes so, so much more than that, for both of them.

(Inspired by @sweatandwoe ​ & Secret Ingredient, a must-read)

Warnings: SFW. Baker!Reader, fluff, romance, revolutionary-shenannigans, young love, flirting, time-skips, bit of world-building, slice-of-life-ish, hurt/comfort, humor, angst, eventual happy-ending

Part 1 Part 3

"You can be honest," Silco assured you, resting his fist against his chin to support his head, and you could see the corners of his mouth upturned, gaze mirthful. "I won't tell, promise."

".. .It's just so dry," You wheezed, causing his hand to raise higher to cover his cough as you glowered, hurriedly reaching for the flask of water he grabbed- likely because the bastard had predicted your reaction. "It's a honey-roll, how is it-... it's barely even sticky!"

"Astoundingly, it turns out importing important ingredients this far-down in the Entresol is a bit difficult," There's still laughter gleaming in his eye as he shrugs a shoulder towards the stall across the walkway. "It's been watered down so much, the honey probably had more in-common with fish than bees."

At this, you couldn't resist a small-snort around your next sip, rolling your eyes as you turned to look around, at lights at people at... how different the Lanes really were, you felt like you stepped from one world to the next... but far more incredible, was how different Silco had become.

He seemed to take a complete turn - there was always a standoffish-air about him during his trips in the Promenade, and that all but melted the deeper the two of you had gone into the lift.

There's nothing but confidence, practically radiating off his skin as he takes his hand into yours... and you daresay that the man almost looks relaxed.

"Checking me out, are you?"

You blink, then elbow him while the crooked smile of his only grows. "With charm like that, I'm not surprised you have half the Undercity wrapped around your finger," The obvious sarcasm is only met with a grin, the largest you ever thought him capable of.

"More than half."

"I'm sure."

"Doubt, from you?" Silco shakes his head, almost mournfully... but you see that dumb smirk still twitching at his lips. "Oh, the misery."

"Only misery here, is the food. You eat... things like that, all the time?"

You were never one to judge others taste, or culinary abilities - after the stunt with pasta, you would've ran Vander out with the steel cooking-prongs if that was the case - but you could swear there was still a spot on your tongue that was dryer than the desert from that honey-roll...

"Before you, I didn't eat much of anything," Silco said, snapping you out of your thoughts with a cold splash of reality. Reality that, Silco continued to map out for you in perfect clarity, with nothing more than an absent shrug, "Down in the mines, you're already well six-feet-under, and there's a million others willing to take the job. Foreman often figure, why feed one when there's another at-ready to replace it? Waste of food."

Passing by another stall, almost on reflex, you see his other hand flash out over the nearest basket of apples. You blink, a second time when his other hand comes to press at the small of your back, urging you at a calm, and sharp pace beside him as he continues to speak, as if nothing happened and there isn't a slightly bruised, round red-fruit in his hand.

"So, we had to go out. Scavenge, steal... sometimes just hope, or fantasize to get through one hungry night, to the next... there were too many nights in a row, once. So, I decided to do the previous-steps, although a bit further Uptown," He eye glinted at you in time with the edge of a knife catching in the knife. You don't know where it came from - you hope not from his boot - but it shines cleanly as Silco reduces to fruit into slices.

And then you blink, when one is promptly offered to you on the edge of his blade.

"I never did thank you. That first night."

Pinching off the apple-slice, you regard it for a heartbeat - noting it at least doesn't look shriveled and dry - before popping in your mouth. "I don't think it needed a thank-you. You said it yourself, it was for survival sake."

"On my end, yes. But what was your excuse?"

You paused, and thought about it for a moment, silently walking beside him along a busy street, in a part of a city you didn't know.

"I could? So I did." Realizing that gives the impression of impulsiveness, you're quick to revise your words after taking another bite of fruit. "I mean... you needed someone to help you, and I was there. And it would've felt wrong not to."

"So you acted on ethics?" His tone impassive, but Silco's eyes peer at you intently, thoughtful and deciphering.

"No. Acted on... compassion, I guess."

There's silence for a moment, and it's quiet enough that you're about to take in every-detail of Silco's calloused palm, meeting with yours, squeezing tightly.

"... Thank you."

"I told you, Silco, you never needed to-"

"And you didn't either," He interrupts, and there's a long pause, as if Silco debates with himself, wrestling with what he does next...

But even though it takes him far, far too long, he leans down enough to brush his lips against your cheek, his warm breath tickling your warming skin as he breathes, "You didn't, but you could. So, thank you."

It's quiet for the rest of the night. But as you lay in your bed, back above the bakery, smiling and cheek still tingling warm at the kiss, you think you both said more than enough.

You never knew how quiet it could be.

And indeed, alone in the bakery, it can be... extremely quiet.

Older now, and more alone than you've ever been, you subtly part the curtains with your fingers, just enough to take a peek outside. You don't so much sigh with relief, when you take stock of the absence of blue-and-gold armored Enforcers, but some of the weary tension saps from you at the sight, or lack thereof.

The baker took their leave the moment after the first curfew was enacted, and left you the bakery.

The establishment... the place you trained, worked, lived, thrived, all yours and all-empty. On one-hand, you were glad. You didn't hate your mentor, far from it, but there was a callousness, hot-tempered part of them that you were glad to watch go out the front door with two bags, and no intent to look back.

You were certainly glad to have the shop all to yourself too - even with business slowing down to a crawl in the wake of double, triple Enforcer patrols along the Promenade. But the fact that it was all yours, from the two-room apartment above, to the shopfront you'd frequent from the moment you were taller than the counter, to your beloved, and ancient kitchen, of which you had practically every inch of surface memorized by heart...

It was like a dream. But it was a dream far, far too quiet.

Even now, moving away from the door, your body twitched at the sound of your small-sigh, and how it seemed to echo around the building. It was just too empty, with your mentor gone, customers often too weary to risk the Enforcer-monitors streets...

Clenching the mug tight in your hands, your mind slipped back to Silco.

Silco, Vander and Benzo... and the fact that all three hadn't shown up at the bakery in weeks. On one hand you understood, on the other, you were pacing with fingers shaking around the ceramic, and you were worried.

Worried of what, exactly? You weren't sure... but even in the worst of time, where life, work or whatever else kept the boys busy down in the Lanes, they always found a way back. With sheepish smiles, apologies and a ravenous appetite, it had become habit to expect the three to sneak in from the front periodically, not to mention you had long since gotten use to their visits as a fact of your life...

You were, perhaps a bit desperately at this point, keeping one ear out on the front door as you reluctantly returned to the kitchen to complete the afternoon batch of rolls.

That's probably why you all but dropped your ceramic mug, when you turned the corner to see Silco, slipping in though the back door.

You were standing in front of him in less than a second, staring up and breathing his name. A boy no longer, the last growth-spurt had been the bane of your existance but looking up at Silco, and taking in his tired, weary and bruised, and... here.

Here, and you don't waste a second longer, before taking advantage of that fact to rush to him, arms tight around his waist and face pressed close to his chest.

"I'm sorry."

"You should be," You hissed - not sniffling, no. "Where were you?"

Silco is quiet, for just a moment. Raising your head slightly with a gentle rise and fall of his breath, one arm loose, and yet securing around your waist. "... shall I be honest, or tell a lie that makes you feel better?"

"The truth, Sil," Scolding a man would be odd to any outsider, particularly when you stepped back to place your hands on your hips, but it worked, with Silco having the decency to look sheepish at your insistence. "Look... life gets busy? I get it. Work gets hectic? Sure... But five weeks, Silco?"

You balled your hands into fists at your sides, to hide that they were shaking, even after his eyes flicked down to them. "You scared me, Silco," You admit, and his tone is apologetic.

"I know, that's... partially why I would rather tell you a lie."

"Silco."

"We," He pauses, again, and you struggle not to tap your damn foot. "... closed down a mine."

You waited, but he said little else, and so with a sigh, the directionally changed for you to walk sharply into the kitchen. He follows, and leans heavily against the counter as you return to the oven - Silco takes a moment to glace between the shut-windows and front-door, before jerked back to attention at your flat-tone. "I see."

You didn't, and he knew it, which is why Silco murmured your name almost weakly, before wisely shuting his mouth.

"Five-weeks, Silco," You repeated firmly, taking out the ready-rolls fresh and hot from the oven. Out of habit, one was scooped off the pan with a spatula, set out to cool and consume by the young man you were scolding. "Closing down a mine took you five-weeks? Without any words or messages or-"

"We didn't close it. We blew it up."

Mid-scoop, your arm jerked violently. You don't even mourn the fact that a roll bounces off the coutertop and is left to cool on the floor, as you turn to gaze opened-mouthed at Silco at his announcement. He doesn't meet your eyes, and when he speaks, it's as clinical as sterilized-steel.

"It's been opened for generations. Thousands lived, died, and are buried within it's walls, all under Enforcer command. No more."

You blink, inhale, and exhale lowly, shakily, "Did... was there... anyone...?"

"No. We cleared it, did it at night, but..." He hesitates, before jerking his chin, long dark hair flicking at the movement he makes towards the window. "If you were wondering why about the new influx of patrols, I know of a handful of reasons."

Body slumps against the counter. Your arms, thankfully, keep you propped up, but you can only stare at Silco. A million and one thoughts running through your mind, but from them all, you can only manage four words, "How are you feeling?"

"How do you think?"

"Okay, how... what's next?"

The weariness in bright sea-green eyes fade into determination, the kind you had seen that night in the Lanes, years ago. "There are others, willing to fight beside us, willing to do whatever it takes... it's possible." Silco says it firmly - not as if to convince himself, or even you, but perhaps to convince the world. "It's... our freedom, is possible."

You want to shake him, really. Thoughts of patrols, of cave-ins, recklessness, arrests, of Stillwater, fill your mind, while you know there's only the glowing hope of a better, grander future filling his.

He's scaring you, but it's with his hopes for a better future, a better life for himself, and for the people in the lower-parts of the Undercity.

How... how can you possibly dim that hope with your fears?

But maybe Silco sees it, when he looks to you fully, and takes in the slight shake in your arms as you lean heavily on the countertop. Pushing away from his own counter, he reaches towards you, and you're quick and eager to meet him halfway, grasping his arm tightly as you look up at him. "I... what... what do you want me to do?"

"Nothing."

A blink - from both baker and newfound rebel, as if neither could believe the force behind his words. Silco tries again, licking his lips, "I don't... want you doing anything. Getting involved with this. We reside in different seconds of the Undercity, and it's far-safer for you to continue up here..."

"But I want to help you," You insist, reaching up with your other hand, and though the young man jerks, bright eyes widening at the touch, you watch as he leans slowly into the palm that cups his face, eyelashes flickering, "Silco... whatever you need. However I could help. Let me, please."

For a moment, there's silence. From you, fear and worry, but also assurance that your support was far from shaken. And from him... his eyes open fully, and Silco gazes at you with a mixture of emotions, all swirling too fast for you to decipher.

He says far, far much more, with the way he leans down to brush lips to yours, than with words.

Another kiss, one made far too late, and far too sweet, that you almost stumble in the man's grasp at it.

It's so full of adoration, that you know even Silco couldn't put it all into words.

You canteen find your own, and a forehead presses against another for a long heartbeat, before Silco speaks again, quietly, and yet firmly, "It would help me to know you're here. Safe. Working, doing your business and... staying out of the Lanes."

"Forever?"

"No, just... just until."

"Would... would you be able to come see me?"

Another kiss, this one quicker to come, and this one far more firmly, as Silco whispers urgently against your lips, "As often as I can."

Those same lips smile, and you let out a small laugh - part hysterical, but Silco seems to share it. Euphoria and fear mixing together, a perfect and chaotic blend...

As he kisses you, a third-time that speaks not of the joy of the possible future and the anxiety of war-indeed, but of the joy sizzling between you at these long-awaited kisses... you try to ignore the fact that it feels like this perfect mixture, feels only one ingredient away from disaster.

Disaster, it turns out, comes in many forms.

The Children of Zaun quickly turn into a disaster for Piltover. A group of children, the product of generations of apathy, misery and oppression, lash out with the full-force of descendents making up for their predecessors lack of fighting in the past, and it's simply a disaster for the Enforcers.

Patrols allbut swarm the Promenade, and the Alcoves fared even worse with harbors constantly under-watch, but it only helped the Topside efforts so much.

Smuggling became a full-time profession. The Lanes already made no secret of the extra items among their stalls, but now, there was no secret on the raids made, typically against Enforcers themselves.

It's impressive. It's sending a message, showing that the Children of Zaun are a legitimate force, with a real, clear goal of refusing to cow to enforcement.... and it's scaring you half to death.

A bakery, obviously, doesn't warrant any searches among the swarms of Enforcers that stalk the streets - in fact, they're almost cheery to get warm, fresh-made food at your little shop on your lunch-breaks, and while the gold is appreciated, the polite smile on your face forever feels frozen as each Topside customer.

You try to picture, which Enforcer gave Vander that walloping on the harbor last month? The one that threw that gas-canisters into a safehouse Benzo had been guarding? You can't even hate them - all you energy goes into the worry of what these Enforcers are doing to your friends, and for those trying to fight for their right to exist in a better life.

It shows in your baking too, though Silco, bless him, doesn't comment. Even as his brow twitches as he takes a bite of an turnover - apple. You both had developed a sort of fondness for them, since that night in the Lanes.

"Was anyone else...?" You don't finish. Maybe because a part of you doesn't want to know, but also because the stitch in his arm requires your full-attention - years ago, you would've balked at the thought of even attempting it. But times are changing.

"No. We had a decent force... as the leader, I worked to made sure everyone got out of their first." A pause, then he crams the rest of the pastry into his mouth, avoiding your gaze. Silco chews slowly, to avoid speaking (and also because you both knew full-well it was more chewy than flakey) before finally answering in an almost sheepish-tone. "And it is just a scratch."

"One that's taking a dozen amateur stitches to close. Sure."

"You're doing a good job," His assurance is met with a grateful squeeze on your knee, pressed against his own as you work closely. Nails dig faintly through your apron and your pants beneath it as you work to snip of the excess, and carefully tie off the stich, before it eases as you reach for a nearby wrapping. "Who knows? Could be my personal baker and nurse one of these days."

"I can't fix everything, Silco. And I would be grateful if you would... you know. Visit an actual doctor."

"Ah, but where would I get the opportunity to eat as you work?" His tease ends in a hiss, as you tie off the wrap just a smidge tighter than necessary... for his benefit, of course.

Leaving him briefly to wash up, clean yourself off, and remove your apron - he made a habit of showing-up at the tail-end of your shift. When he could show-up, that is. Upon returning, silently, Silco held his hand out to you.

You offered your own without hesitation, and for a moment just... tried to enjoy this.

Even with worry plucking at every nerve, and even fear spiking through you everytime you glanced at the carefully-curtained windows, knowing what the world was outside, you tried to enjoy this moment with Silco as much as you could.

It wasn't hard, as his thumb carefully strummed along your knuckles, and his hand was so, so warm in yours.

"... there's some benefits to all this."

"I know. Never said there wasn't."

"We're making progress," Mouth twisting in a sneer at Piltover's iconic buzzword, his eyes softened at your glance. "We are. The Sumps are all but abandoned by Pilties, and the central-Lanes are in our control. If we just keep pushing, keep working... we can do it. We could have the Nation of Zaun by the end of the year, so long as we keep up."

Smiling, you shook your head, "You'll work yourself to death... you could afford to slow down, Silco. You, Vander and Benzo." You couldn't even remember the last time you saw the other Sons of Zaun. Had Vander grown another half-foot in your absence? "You can take a break... Zaun will still be here for you, if you just slowed down a bit."

"I can slow down when the Undercity is ours, or I'm dead." Stubborn as he was, there was a soft look in his eyes as the gentle notes of your voice, all but asking him to take care of himself.

"If I have to bury you, I'm going to be real upset." You tried. You tried to make it sound like a joke, tried to keep the pinched-note of worry from your voice, but you tried and failed.

Though, at the very least, the seagreen-eyes looked guilty at your words. It wasn't as much as a comfort as you would hope, but you kept focus on your joined hands... meaning you missed the way the soft look in Silco's eyes faded, and were replace by determination. A firmness that wasn't showed in his quiet, almost reassuring words.

"If I do-"

"Stop."

"If I-"

"No. Stop it. Don't you dare start that," Snatching your hand away like he scalded you - he might as well have, there was a sudden heat behind your eyes - you didn't get more than two steps before his hand shot out, latching and interlocking with yours.

"If I do," He starts again, far, far too calmly. "Then I want you to focus on you. Not me, don't..." Silco pauses, then shrugs the shoulder that isn't bandage, with all the casualness of a man discussing weather, save for a bitter smile on his lips. "Bit late to tell you to forget me... but it wouldn't be worth it, to keep going on life thinking about a dead man."

"Why are you so certain that's what you'll be?"

He laughs, and you blink at the way it sounds so dark, and worst of, knowing. "Because I know who I am? Because I know where I came from? Because dying is a risk I've known all my life...?"

You could shake him, for how careless he shrugged, and how he wouldn't even meet your gaze. "Death has always been the logical end-point... not the goal, but I know it's coming. I just want to make sure you'll be okay, when it does."

You're about to shake him. About to rip your hand from his, teeth-bared and eyes furious instead of releasing the embarrassing tears behind them, but you can only hoarsely whisper, "Why?"

"Why would I want you to be okay, when I'm no longer here?" Silco laughs, just as sullen, bitter as the previous. "I think we both know why... and we both know the feeling is mutual."

"Of course it is." You manage not to flinch as his fingers tighten, his gaze flashing to you with intensity, and for just a moment, pure and never faltering love for you. "But why... why are you saying all this now?" A swallow, before you add in a breath, "Why does it sound like you're saying goodbye?"

Silence reigned, and not even Silco, pushing the chair back and standing, could break it.

Only your inhale, shaking and tight, broke it by the time he had stepped halfway across the shopfront to you. "Are you?"

Silco opens... closes, opens, and closes his mouth again. Losing his words and losing his thoughts - both first-time occurrences. His arms reaching out to you, wrapping around your waist and pulling you into an embrace against his chest, is far from a first-time occurrence.

But it's the first time you leave the front of his shirt wet, the bright, rebellious maroon color bleeding darker, like blood with your tears.

"Are you?" You whisper against his sternum, and you hear and feel the shudder in his exhale, before Silco speaks.

"I hope not. Gods, I hope not... but how can I stop? Change can't stop, anymore than this revolution can... the only end for change is death. And I've... always aimed to desire change."

"Can't you aim any lower?"

Again, the chuckle you both share is a little hysterical - for you, quite a bit more so.

Silence once again fills the space around you, and the smaller space between you. Enjoying the moment is impossible, but even as you cling to Silco, it's impossible to ignore the comfort he brings, as his hand cups your head, with fingers caressing though your hair as he holds you close.

"Promise me one thing?"

Silco hesitates. "I'll try."

"Try, to stay alive. For me." Even if he couldn't come every day. Even Zaun's freedom wasn't a guarantee, even if you had to sell the damn bakery to bail him out of Stillwater if he got arrested..."Just, stay alive. That's all I ask."

The quiet only lasts a minute, before you feel a small dip of his chin on your head, in the motion of a brief nod. Allbut slumping into your arms, Silco holds you even tighter to him, other palm now reaching to rub circles into your lower-back in an assuring motion.

"May I ask something as well?"

"Mm?"

There's a pause, and you brace for another promise. Extracted form you, assuring him that whatever happens to him, you would be okay. A promise, you weren't sure you could keep.

You're braced for all that and more. Not the kiss he presses to the crown of your head, firm enough that you feel his words, more than hear his words. "I miss your cooking. Promise to have something ready, the next time I come back?"

A laugh all but bursts out of you - again, hysterical, but actual comedy in your tone as you weakly smack his arm for such a silly request, in such a heavy atmosphere. Perhaps he's lightening the mood, perhaps he's just trying to distract... it works, for a moment, though...

"You moron...  what do you want?"

"Anything you make, is simply delectable, my dear. Though, I'm curious what your version of a honey-roll would be."

"Not dry, that's for sure..."

For just a moment, like children, you can almost forget how dark, and cruel the Undercity could be.

Despite the mirthful air between you, despite laughter, you pray to any God that hears you, that they won't try to remind you.

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[mischiefxmuses]

"I promise. I'll be back in the office in no time. This is just a precaution." Silco smiled at her. The shimmer in his system also healed him faster. Didn't make him invincible but it helped. But he didn't advertise what the shimmer had done to him. How it changed him. "I am glad I didn't and that no one did. I can get lost in revenge. Would rather not show that side of me." A nervous chuckle left him. If she had been hurt it would have been something he could have easily fallen into. "Well colour me intrigued. We should definitely go then." Back home relaxing and going places without major reason wasn't a luxury he had. But here he could do just that. Spend time with someone special and experience things. "Still getting used to it but I'll get there. But I am keen to do new things." He smiled at her. But glanced out the window for a moment, seeing a different city in front of him. Blue sky. A horizon. Not something he often got to experience back home. He glanced back at their hands when she took his and ran his thumbs slowly over her knuckles. "I did what I had to. Some may paint me a villain for it. But after being so oppressed for so long. The people who called me villain didn't know who I had been and turned into due to circumstances." Silco had been a scholar. Spending his younger years studying. Trying to build medicines, create bee things and join the academy but because of him coming from the Undercity he was turned away. After that all he say was rage. How few opportunities those from the Undercity got. He wanted revenge. An uprising. "I hope to be the man I should have been here. Not the man war turned me into." He had wanted to prove the academy wrong. Make them eat their words that he'd never be successful or amount to anything. "I look forward to it. Seeing who we are here." He brought her knuckles to his lips and pressed a respectful kiss to her knuckles.

post continued from here bc the new editor sucks :))) @mischiefxmuses

sarra smiled. "I'm glad you're alright, truly," a small laugh left her lips at the others comment - he was right, she wasn't usually as brash, but she'd been worried enough to forgo her usual calm and collected demeanour. "you didn't hurt me, so you have nothing to worry about in that respect, silco - I'm perfectly fine," maybe a little emotionally shaken, but she was fine physically and didn't want him to worry about her too much. "thank you," she smiled, taking the mug, moving her position to face him at a better angle. "I've heard that it's supposed to be lovely, one of the interns took his boyfriend there a few weeks ago - said it was very nice," she smiled. "it does sound wonderful, and different is good, which means it's not something that you're used to," she nodded. "I think I would hate it if it were like that," she did enjoy this city, it had its moments where chaos was thrown at them, but other than those little moments of carnage, it was a peaceful place to live - with no one controlling who she was anymore. sarra placed the mug back in front of her, taking his hands in her own. "sometimes we all must do things to survive," she paused - she'd become complacent to her husband's horrible treatment of their children, too afraid to speak out against him - too conditioned to be the perfect little housewife while failing at her duty as a mother. "you're not that person, that anger doesn't define who you are - your actions here in this city do," she smiled. "we both might have been different people at home, but now here, in this city - we're both better versions of ourselves and that's for the better,"