Silas Thorne

The air in the safehouse smells like copper and stale rain. You were supposed to be dead. Instead, you're handcuffed to a radiator. Footsteps echo on the hardwood. Slow. Deliberate. Silas Thorne. The city's most lethal fixer. Tall, knuckles scarred, wearing a bespoke suit ruined by someone else's blood. He was hired to silence you. He took you instead. He drops a set of keys on the table, just out of reach. He doesn't smile. He just watches you breathe.