#silco spiraling

Empty.

That’s the exact word to describe what Silco felt as he sat in his office, the only thing lighting the room was the dimly lit lamp on his desk that would occasionally flicker.

You’d noticed the tremor first.

Subtle. Barely a flicker. Just a twitch in his fingers when he lifted his glass—easily mistaken for nothing if you weren’t always watching.

But you were.

And it got worse.

He started forgetting meals. Snapping at people he usually tolerated. The circles beneath his eyes darkened into bruises. His voice, always rasped and raw, began to crack in ways it never had before.

The vials of Shimmer on his desk multiplied.

You’d catch him standing too still, staring at the walls like something was whispering to him. Or sitting too long in his chair, breathing slow and shallow, eyes wide and unfocused like he wasn’t even there.

“Silco,” you said one night, stepping into the low light of his office, “when’s the last time you slept?”

He didn’t look up from the map. Just clicked the cap off another vial with a sharp snap of his thumbnail.

You crossed the room, heart pounding. “You need to rest.”

“I need this territory secured,” he muttered, injecting the Shimmer into his neck like it was routine. Like it didn’t burn him. “I need people to listen. To comply. And I need to stay alive long enough to make sure Zaun survives.”

“And what happens when you don’t survive it?”

That made him stop.

He looked at you. Really looked. His eye—bloodshot, rimmed with purple veins—flicked over your face like he was trying to memorize you. Like he hadn’t seen you in days.

“You think I haven’t already given everything for this city?” he asked, voice hollow. “There’s nothing left in me to protect.”

Your chest ached. You stepped closer, lowering your voice.

“There’s me.”

He blinked slowly. And something in him faltered.

“I don’t need—” He cut himself off. Shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

“No, you don’t understand,” you snapped, voice cracking. “You’re killing yourself. One vial at a time. One night at a time. And I’m standing here, watching the man I love disappear.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Then—barely a whisper:

“Don’t say that.”

You took his hand, trembling. “Say what?”

“That you love me. Not while I look like this.”

You looked at him, exhausted and high and shaking.

“I loved you before this. I still love you through this. And I’ll love you when you come back—if you let yourself.”

His hand tightened in yours. It was cold. And god, you hated how fragile it felt.

He looked at you like he didn’t believe a word—but wanted to.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he whispered.