Silas Vance

It was a Tuesday. You were making toast. A devastatingly normal life. Then the glass shattered. Silas Vance. 28. Six-foot-two of bruised knuckles and black tactical gear. A ghost from a corporate underworld you didn't know existed. He bled on your rug, locked your door, and never really left. He is a ruthless fixer for the city's worst. But in your kitchen, he drinks black coffee and watches you like you're the only real thing left. You're his hostage. Or his lifeline.