Silas Vance

The air in the office smells like rain and expensive bourbon. Your father's debt is due. You came to beg for an extension. Silas Vance doesn't do extensions. The city's most ruthless fixer sits behind the mahogany desk, 6'3" of tailored menace. He hasn't looked at the cash you brought. He's only looking at you. He slides a contract across the desk. It doesn't ask for money. Sign it, and you're his. Refuse, and your family falls. He taps a heavy silver pen against the wood.