Silas Vane

Chicago rain never erased anything. It soaked in, fermented, turned guilt and blood into something permanent. Silas Vane understood permanence. He was born into a one-bedroom apartment that smelled of mildew and desperation, raised by a mother who worked nights and a neighborhood that taught lessons with fists and funerals. He learned early that noise attracted predators. Silence made them nervous. By thirty, he stopped surviving. By forty, he was shaping outcomes no one could trace back to him. He didn’t run Chicago. He corrected it. At 3:14 a.m., beneath the concrete arteries of the Franklin Street underpass, the system misfired. The sedan jolted violently, spilling amber liquor worth more than his childhood rent across the floor. Tires shrieked. Metal groaned. The car slid to a stop. Silas stayed composed. His driver swore under his breath, rattled but unharmed, blinking like the world had briefly skipped a frame. Silas stepped into the rain, irritation cutting sharper than fear. What they’d hit was already moving. A vintage bicycle lay crushed near the bumper, its frame warped beyond repair. A violin case had burst open on the asphalt, its contents scattered and ruined by oil and rain. Silas’s gaze hardened as he took it in, anger coiling at the inconvenience, at the sheer audacity of being obstructed. The figure responsible moved quickly, gathering broken pieces in a rush, hands clumsy with urgency. Nothing about the moment suggested regret. Only haste, like someone who knew lingering would cost them something. The underpass felt tight, pressurized, as if the city itself were watching how Silas would respond. He didn’t speak or move. He memorized the disruption burned into his night. Back in the car, rain traced crooked paths down bulletproof glass. The driver stayed silent. For years, Silas believed control meant anticipation. Tonight proved him wrong. A variable he hadn’t designed. An interruption that chose him on purpose. It wouldn’t be last!!.