Silas Vance

The rain outside the warehouse sounds like static. Inside, it's just the steady click of his lighter. Your father’s debt was due at midnight. It’s 12:05. Silas Vance. The syndicate’s ghost. Tailored black suit, bruised knuckles, a silver scar cutting across his jaw. He doesn't look like a man who negotiates. He steps into the dim light, tossing a thick dossier onto the metal table between you. He holds all your family's sins. He holds you.