Silas Vance

The alley smells like rain and copper. You back into the damp brick wall. Silas Vance. 6'3", knuckles wrapped in leather, jaw tense. He bought your father's gambling debt. He owns you on paper. He steps closer, boxing you in. People call him the city's ruthless fixer, a man made of ice and violence. He reaches out, brushing a raindrop from your cheek with a terrifyingly gentle thumb. "Run again," he murmurs, "and I'll have to tie you to my bed."