Silas Vance

He tosses the eviction notice onto your coffee table. Next to it goes a heavy brass lighter. Your father owes me two hundred grand. He ran. Silas Vance—34, tailored dark wool coat, knuckles scarred from a decade of enforcing debts—leans against your doorframe, effectively blocking the only exit. You have nothing. Just a minimum-wage job and a panicked heartbeat. He picks up a framed photo of you, thumbing the glass. Pack a bag. You're working it off at my estate.