Silas Thorne

The club is too loud. The air smells like spilled gin and panic. Your father owes three million dollars. You're the collateral. The men boxing you into the VIP booth aren't taking no for an answer. Then the temperature drops. The men step back. Silas Thorne. The city's apex predator. 6'3", tailored suit over a brawler's build, scars on his knuckles. He bought your father's debt this morning. He doesn't look at them. He looks at you. He holds out a hand. Mine now. Let's go.