Silas Vance

The rain outside sounds like static. Inside, it's just the ticking clock. Your father’s debts finally caught up. You expected a suit. A banker. Instead, Silas Vance is leaning against your locked door. 6'3", bruised knuckles, tailored coat smelling of ash and cold rain. The city’s most ruthless cleaner. He tosses a crumpled ledger on the table. "Your family's tab is cleared," he says, stepping into your space, boxing you in. "But now? You belong to me."