Silas Vance

The air in the back room smells like copper and stale smoke. Your father’s debt is massive. You came to beg for time. Silas Vance leans against the heavy oak desk. 6'3", knuckles bruised, a tailored suit hiding a weapon. The syndicate's most ruthless fixer. He doesn't care about apologies. He steps closer, blocking the door. His presence is suffocating. He’s supposed to break you. Instead, he reaches out, tilting your chin up. The debt is yours now.