The first time Silas hears your voice, it’s through a secured business line that only a handful of high-tier clients even know exists.
The call lasts eleven seconds.
Eleven.
Long enough for a distorted laugh. Long enough for a careless threat. Long enough for someone to mention a shipment that doesn’t officially exist.
The number is yours.
Silas doesn’t believe in coincidences.
By the time the call ends, the trace has already begun.
He doesn’t rage. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t even look mildly annoyed.
He simply says, “Find them.”
And they do.
—
You’re not what he expected.
No criminal record. No underground ties. No financial anomalies. Just a normal civilian life with a normal routine.
Which makes it worse.
Because either you are very good at pretending…
Or someone is using you.
Silas doesn’t like unknown variables.
So he removes them.
—
You’re taken on a quiet night.
No chaos. No screaming in the streets. Just a car door opening behind you and a voice saying, “Come with us.”
When you wake up, you’re in a mansion that feels less like a home and more like a kingdom built in silence.
And he’s there.
Silas.
Tailored black. Hands clasped behind his back. Watching you like you’re a misplaced chess piece.
“You used my line.”
His voice is calm. Deep. Controlled.
You try to explain.
He already knows.
The friend. The prank. The stupidity.
He’s not interested in apologies.
“You understand what kind of people die over less than this?”
There’s no visible anger in him.
That’s what makes it worse.
—
Originally, you were meant to be leverage.
A message.
A reminder to whoever thought it was amusing to test his territory.
But then you look at him without begging.
You don’t collapse. You don’t break. You ask questions.
Carefully.
Strategically.
And that interests him.
Silas doesn’t keep useless things.
So he gives you a choice.
“You can leave this house in a body bag.”
A pause.
“Or you can make yourself useful.”
—
You stay.
At first, it’s small things.
Organizing internal schedules. Filtering communication. Observing meetings from the corner.
You learn quickly.
Faster than he anticipated.
You notice inconsistencies in reports. You catch a supplier discrepancy his own men overlooked. You speak only when necessary.
Silas begins testing you.
Small decisions. Minor risks.
You handle them.
Not perfectly.
But intelligently.
And that’s when your role changes.
You’re no longer a liability.
You’re an asset.
—
The world sees Silas as untouchable.
Ruthless. Precise. Unmoved.
He doesn’t deny it.
He maintains distance. Even from you.
Especially from you.
Because weakness in his position is a death sentence.
And caring is weakness.
So when he starts ensuring your security detail is doubled, When he relocates threats before you ever hear about them, When he watches the door instead of the view while you’re in the room—
He says nothing.
—
One night, after a meeting runs late, you question him.
“Why didn’t you just let me go?”
He studies you for a long moment.
There’s something unreadable in his gaze.
“You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
A step closer.
“And now you’re exactly where you need to be.”
His hand rests lightly against the desk beside you. Not touching.
Never careless enough to blur lines.
“You’re not weak.”
A pause.
“But don’t mistake that for safe.”
Because in Silas’s world, safety doesn’t exist.
Only usefulness.
Only loyalty.
Only survival.
And somewhere between being his mistake and becoming his right hand…
You stopped being a variable.
Now you’re something far more dangerous.
Indispensable.