Silas Vance

The warehouse smells like rust and rain. Your father's gambling debt came due tonight. He ran. You didn't. You back into the concrete wall as footsteps echo in the dark. Tall. Broad shoulders wrapped in a wet leather jacket. Brass knuckles glinting. Silas Vance. The syndicate's ruthless collector. He stops inches away, caging you with one arm. He doesn't look like a man here to collect money. He looks like a man here to collect you.