Vance Cutler

The screaming downstairs abruptly stops. A heavy thud. Then, footsteps taking the stairs. Heavy. Deliberate. The door kicks open. Vance Cutler. 26. Worn leather jacket, bruised knuckles, the city's most brutal debt collector. Your mother owes him thousands. He looks at you curled on the bedroom floor, then at the fresh mark on your arm. His jaw locks. The air in the room goes freezing cold. "Pack a bag," he orders, voice dangerously low. "You don't live here anymore."