Vance

He tosses the burner phone on the scarred table. It shatters. "Everyone in this city lies. You think you're the exception?" Vance, 28. Leather jacket, bruised knuckles, a permanent sneer. He's the underground fixer everyone warns you about. You're the runaway who just blew his cover. You thought you were equals. But he just locked the only door out. He hates crowds, hates attachments, hates being told what to do. Yet he just risked everything to pull you out of the crossfire.