Ashes of Progress // Silco x OC

Chapter 8

The meeting room was dim, shadows curling along the moisture-streaked walls like specters as the flickering gaslight cast uneven beams across the assembled Chem-Barons. Silco sat at the head of the table, a figure cloaked in menace, his presence commanding the room. The acrid stench of Zaun—chemicals, rusted metal, despair—hung heavy in the air, and his sharp gaze swept over each face, waiting.

The Chem-Barons shifted uneasily, a tension crackling between them like static, each wary glance betraying the anxiety that lingered beneath their hardened exteriors.

"The shimmer shipments have been intercepted again," Garen, a burly Chem-Baron, growled, pounding his fist on the table. The impact sent a half-empty glass clinking against the wood, breaking the uneasy silence. "It's no coincidence. Someone's feeding the enforcers information."

Silco's eye narrowed, and a flicker of disdain twisted his features into something chilling. He inhaled deeply, the cigarette tip flaring an angry red as he leaned back, the edges of his mouth curling in a smile that held no warmth, only warning.

"You're suggesting we have a mole," he said softly. His tone was calm, almost pleasant, yet beneath it was a threat—a blade poised to strike. He let the silence stretch, each heartbeat a drum of discomfort as his gaze flickered across the room, watching the Chem-Barons shift, squirm, avoiding his stare.

"Not here, Silco." Garen's voice wavered, a hint of hesitation creeping in. "But among the workers. Someone close to the shipments. That girl—Mavara. There were already whispers about her being a runaway, maybe even from topside. She showed up just when the delays started. It's too much of a coincidence."

The others murmured in agreement, some nodding, others shooting furtive glances at Silco, trying to read his reaction. Silco watched them, his fingers steepled, unmoving. The tension was palpable, a coil wound tight, ready to snap. He let the accusation hang, let them feel the weight of it. He wanted them uncomfortable—wanted them afraid.

"Mavara?" he echoed, his voice slicing through the room. He let her name linger, his gaze sharp and predatory, taking in their unease. "A new recruit. A talented one, at that. I've seen the stabilizers she repaired—they run better now than they ever did. She's improved efficiency where the rest of you see only excuses for failure."

His voice dropped, soft and deadly. He leaned forward, his gaze boring into Garen's, the temperature in the room seeming to plummet. "And you think she's a spy? Really, Garen? Is that the depth of insight you bring to my table?"

Garen visibly swallowed, his bravado shrinking under Silco's stare. He opened his mouth to speak, but Silco lifted his hand—a silent command. Garen closed his mouth.

Silco let his gaze drift over each Chem-Baron, his silence heavier than words, pressing down on them, demanding compliance. "Mavara was chosen by me," he said finally, his voice like gravel, quiet but cutting. "Do you doubt my judgment, Garen?" He held Garen's gaze, unflinching. The room held its collective breath. "Are you challenging me?"

Garen's face drained of color, and he shook his head quickly. "No, Silco. I... I didn't mean—"

Silco leaned back again, an icy smile curling his lips, dismissive and cruel. "Good. Because questioning her place here is questioning my judgment. And I trust none of you are that foolish."

A silence fell over the room, thick as the smoke that curled from Silco's cigarette. The Chem-Barons shifted in their seats, nodding, eyes cast downward. The fear in the room was tangible, an unspoken acknowledgment of who held power.

Brann, a wiry, nervous-looking man, cleared his throat, his voice barely audible. "What about Jinx?" he muttered, as if the words slipped from him before he could stop them. "Maybe she's finally sane enough to realize she's working for the man who—"

The words hadn't even settled before Silco moved. His hand shot out, grabbing a knife from the table, and with a flick of his wrist, the blade flew. It struck Brann's face, embedding deep in his eye. A scream tore through the room as Brann clutched at his face, blood spilling through his fingers.

Silco stood, his silhouette cast long and menacing in the dim light. He watched the Chem-Barons as Brann's screams echoed, unmoved, his gaze passing over each one of them.

"Anyone else?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, colder than the depths of Zaun's waters. "Anyone else care to make baseless accusations? Question my decisions?" He paused, the silence deafening, stretching painfully. "Perhaps someone has something useful to add before I decide this meeting has outlived its usefulness."

The Chem-Barons were stone-still, terror etched in their features. Silco let the silence speak, then finally, dismissively, waved his hand. "Out. All of you."

They scrambled to their feet, practically tripping over themselves in their haste to leave, the door slamming shut behind them, leaving only Sevika behind. She stood near the door, her expression unreadable, her gaze unwavering.

Silco glanced at her, a dark brow arched. "Concerns, Sevika?" His voice carried a hint of challenge, the barest edge of a threat.

Sevika stepped forward, her jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. "It might actually be her, Silco. Sera. The delays started right after she showed up."

Silco's eyes sharpened, his gaze fixing on her, a sudden, dangerous stillness settling over him. He stepped closer, his voice low, mocking. "Do you think I trust her, Sevika?" The question hung between them, his lips curling into something that almost resembled a smile. "No. I keep her close because I know where she is. Control isn't about trust, Sevika. It's about leverage."

Sevika held his gaze, her tension palpable. "And if she's playing us?"

Silco's expression turned coldly amused, his smile widening. "Then we deal with her accordingly. But until then, she remains useful." He paused, his gaze boring into hers, his voice laced with frustration. "You want to know why she's still here, Sevika? It's her potential. The projects she worked on—ones Piltover kept buried out of fear—are extraordinary. Weapons, innovations that could tilt the scales."

He stepped even closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. "I will mold her. Push her in the right direction. And as long as she has that potential, she remains an asset. Not a liability. If you doubt that, Sevika... then perhaps you should be questioning your place here, not hers."

Sevika's eyes hardened, but she gave a slow nod, her voice steady. "Understood."

Silco turned away, moving back to his chair, lowering himself into it. He pulled out a cigarette, lighting it, the flickering flame illuminating the lines of his scarred face. He took a long drag, letting the smoke curl lazily from his lips before exhaling, his thoughts drifting back to Piltover's "dead" Silver Star—Seraphine Moreau.

She was an enigma—a brilliant, infuriating puzzle that had slipped into his world, bringing with her both potential and headaches. He could still see her eyes, those deep purple orbs with that predatory gleam, like she might pull him into her web and twist him to her will if he let her. She was daring, defiant, and that spark intrigued him.

She moved with precision, each action calculated, each thought carefully measured—something he hadn't seen since Vander. And it was there—a fire he could mold, a potential weapon for Zaun. He took another drag from his cigarette, shaking his head. He couldn't afford sentimentality. But there was something about her that... intrigued him.

He crushed the thought as quickly as it came. She was useful, and that was all that mattered.

Nothing more.