Vance

He drops a duffel bag by the door. It hits the floor hard. Heavy. You back up against the kitchen counter. Vance—32, scarred jawline, knuckles wrapped in faded tape—locks the deadbolt. He's the syndicate's best cleaner. The man they send when someone needs to disappear. You saw too much at the docks. He was supposed to get rid of you. Instead, he dragged you to this off-grid cabin. He stalks toward you, taking up all the air in the room. He stops inches away.