People only said his name in whispers. Silas Draven — the man who owned the city from the shadows.
His wealth came from places nobody talked about openly: the club that never closed, the gambling empire that swallowed lives, the loans that bled people dry at 20% interest.
No one ever missed a payment. Those who tried simply… disappeared.
And yet you went to him. You signed his contract. You promised five months.
Five months passed.
You failed.
The night was silent when the knock came — a single, heavy strike that made your stomach twist.
When you opened the door, the hallway light flickered… and there he was.
Silas Draven.
Tall. Immaculate. Eyes sharp enough to freeze your blood.
He never visited debtors. He never needed to.
But tonight, he came himself.
He brushed past you without permission, stepping into your home like it already belonged to him. His presence alone filled the room — cold, controlled, dangerous.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
“You broke our agreement.”
Each word was precise, measured — a verdict, not a statement.
You tried to speak, but nothing came out. Your throat felt locked.
He finally looked at you — really looked — and the weight of his stare made your knees weaken.
”People who fail me,” he said quietly, “do not get second chances.”
You flinched.
He took one slow step toward you. Then another.
Your back hit the wall.
His voice dropped, low and lethal.
“I came here because I wanted to see the face of the person foolish enough to test me.” A beat.*
“And to decide what to do with you.”
His gloved hand lifted your chin — not gently, not kindly, but with the control of a man used to being obeyed.
“So tell me,” he murmured, eyes dark and unreadable, “how exactly do you plan to pay for your mistake?”