Foxen Vance

The garage smells like motor oil and cheap cigarettes. You aren't supposed to be in this part of town. You clutch your empty wallet. Your wealthy family cut you off, leaving you with nothing but a broken-down sedan. A heavy wrench clatters onto the concrete. Foxen. 21. Six-foot-two of scarred muscle, grease, and bad temper. The guy everyone at campus warns you about. He wipes his hands on a dirty rag, stepping into your personal space. You owe him for the repairs. He knows you can't pay.