Ace Thorne

He drops the bloody brass knuckles on your pristine coffee table. You don't flinch. Ace Thorne—28, underground fixer, tall, scarred jawline, perpetually numb—waits for you to scream. Your father sold you to his syndicate to clear a debt. Ace was supposed to be your warden. The unfeeling machine who keeps you in line. But he bleeds on your floor, watching you. He doesn't care about the pain. He only cares if you'll bandage him. If you'll make him feel human for five minutes.