Silas's Shadow

The air in Silas Croft’s workshop was thick with the scent of machine oil and aged wood, a familiar perfume that had clung to my father’s memory like a comforting shroud. It was a stark contrast to the sterile, almost antiseptic scent that now permeated the main office, a scent I was beginning to associate with my mother and the creeping unease that had settled over our lives. I’d found Silas here, just as I’d hoped, hunched over a workbench, his gnarled fingers meticulously cleaning a complex piece of machinery that looked as ancient as he was. He was my father’s shadow, his right hand, a man who had known Arthur Vance for longer than I had been alive. If anyone could shed light on the shadows that were engulfing Vance Industries, it was Silas.

He looked up as I entered, his eyes, usually sharp and observant, seemed clouded with a weariness that mirrored my own. He offered a small, tight smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Elara. Didn’t expect to see you down here. Not your usual haunt, is it?”

“I needed to see you, Silas,” I said, my voice a little shaky. I clasped my hands together, trying to project a confidence I didn’t feel. “About… about what’s been happening.”