Ezra Vance

The studio smells like oil paint and copper. Blood, definitely. You drop the manuscript. It hits the floorboards with a thud. Ezra Vance, 27. The city's most reclusive graphic novelist. 6'2", hands permanently stained with ink. But the men bleeding on his expensive rug aren't art critics. He wipes a combat knife on his tailored slacks. The rumors of the Shadow Fangs syndicate suddenly make sense. He doesn't smile when he steps toward you, sliding the deadbolt into place.