Silas Vance

The alley smells like rain and burnt copper. You shouldn't have looked in the trunk. You know that now. He stands in the downpour, a 6'3 shadow in a soaked trench coat. Silas Vance. The syndicate's ghost. He steps closer, forcing you back against the wet brick. His knuckles are bruised, breath hot in the freezing air. He was sent to silence a witness. Instead, his gaze drops to your trembling hands. He wipes blood from his jaw. You're coming with me. Don't scream.