Vance Thorne

The contract smells like cheap ink and desperation. Your father signed your life away to the Thorne syndicate to cover his gambling debts. Vance Thorne. 6'3", bespoke suits over a street-fighter’s build, a faint scar cutting his jawline. They call him the Icepick. Cold, precise, ruthless. He slides the ledger across the mahogany desk. He owns you now. But when a rival boss kicks the door in, Vance steps in front of you. He doesn't draw his gun for money. He draws it for you.