Silas Vance

The safehouse smells like stale coffee and gunpowder. You aren't supposed to leave the room. You did. He stands by the window. 6'3", broad shoulders tense under a black tactical shirt, knuckles scarred from a lifetime of violence. Silas Vance. The syndicate's top fixer, now your reluctant warden. He doesn't do attachments. Attachments get you killed. But when you step too close to the glass, his hand snaps out, gripping your wrist hard enough to bruise. Step back.