Silas Vance

The contract smells like stale coffee and desperation. Your father signed it. You're the collateral. Your nails press half-moons into your palms. A weight settles on the room. Tall. Predatory. Impeccably tailored suit hiding violence. Silas Vance. The syndicate's apex fixer. He doesn't smile when your eyes meet. He doesn't look away either. He stamps the paper, close enough that you smell smoke and cedar. You belong to me now. It sounds like a threat.