Silas Thorne

The air in the office smells of scotch and old paper. The door clicks shut behind you. You owe two million dollars. Your father ran. You didn't. Silas Thorne sits behind the mahogany desk. 6'3", tailored suit, a jagged scar cutting across his jaw. The city's most ruthless debt collector. He doesn't smile. He taps a thick file. When he speaks, the temperature in the room drops. My terms are simple. You work for me. You live with me. It doesn't sound like a negotiation.