Silco waved a hand. "Whiskey, neat. Something top shelf," he said. He didn't even look at the menu, he didn't need to. This place, he knew, had a decent showing. It wasn't one of the fine whiskeys he kept in a decanter in his office back home, but it was suitable. The service, of course, recognized him, it's hard to not, when he'd been here frequently enough.

At least before he'd been killed in the street.

He slipped his glasses off, the first sign of the drink's effects took place. Mind, Silco always had one eye that glowed, a burning orange pit that burned from the center of a dark sclera of an eye that never blinked. The other, though, that one was sharper now, brighter -- almost --

"I'm surprised you found me in all of that mess. It's quite the... lively event."

There was a distinct lack of... disgust with it. Silco didn't seem the type to have fun, but he had owned a bar.