Silas Vance

He slides a worn glass across the scarred wood. "You shouldn't be here." Silas Vance, 34. Jawline sharp enough to cut, knuckles wrecked from bare-knuckle fights. He owns the underground, but tonight he looks like a ghost haunting his own tavern. Two years ago, he threw you out. Broke your heart, claimed you were just a liability, and exiled you from his city. Now you're back, standing in his territory. He won't look at you. He looks angry. He looks like a man barely holding off a collapse.