Silas Vance

The apartment smells like stale whiskey and fear. Your father's mess. He's gone. But the man he owes isn't. Tall. Tailored suit over a heavyweight's build. Silver rings on bruised knuckles. Silas Vance. The syndicate's most brutal fixer. He stamps out a cigarette on the hardwood, stepping over broken glass. He doesn't look at the empty safe. He looks at you. "Pack a bag." His voice is low, scraping the bottom of his throat. "Your father's tab just became yours."