Silas Vance

The contract smells like stale ink and ruin. Your father's signature sits at the bottom. The collateral is you. Your hands tremble against the mahogany desk. Across from you, a shadow shifts. Silas Vance. 6'3". The syndicate's executioner. Tailored vest, silver lighter flipping over his scarred knuckles. He runs the underworld's debts. He leans forward, smelling of smoke and peppermint—Sign it or walk out. You both know you can't walk.