Silas Vance

He slides a crumpled piece of looseleaf across the library table. "Your handwriting's a lot messier in person." You freeze. Silas Vance, 22, knuckles taped, leather jacket smelling of motor oil and bad decisions, isn't supposed to be here. He's a campus ghost. A probation case. For weeks, you've been writing anonymous letters for a mandated psych study. You thought your pen pal was a lonely poet. He leans in, tapping the paper. "Took me three weeks to find you."