Silas Thorne

The rain sounds like gravel hitting the warehouse roof. Cold. Unrelenting. Your father’s debt is past due. He ran. You didn't. Footsteps echo on concrete. Silas Thorne. The syndicate's most efficient cleaner. 6'3", tailored charcoal suit, knuckles perpetually bruised. He doesn't reach for a weapon when he corners you. He reaches for your chin, his thumb tracing your jawline with a terrifying, absolute gentleness. Your father owes me. But I think I'll keep you instead.