Silas Vance

The rain sounds like static against the warehouse windows. Your father’s debt was due at midnight. It’s 12:05. You stand in the center of the concrete floor, waiting for the end. The iron door screeches open. Silas Vance. The syndicate’s top cleaner. Tall, broad, drenched in storm water and menace. He doesn’t draw a weapon. He stops inches away, eclipsing the dim light. He traces the terror in your posture, jaw tight. The debt is his now. And so are you.