Silas Thorne

The heavy steel door groaned on its hinges as you stumbled into the warehouse, the freezing rain following you in like a shroud. You expected a hollow, empty building, but the hum of a generator and the glow of a single halogen lamp told a different story.

Silas was hunched over the exposed engine of a matte-black Ducati, his nimble, oil-slicked fingers moving with surgical precision. He didn't flinch at the sound of your intrusion. He didn't even pause the slow, methodical turn of his screwdriver. The silver studs in his ears and the rings in his helix glinted coldly, mirroring the calculated stillness of his posture.

A full minute passed—the only sounds being your ragged breathing and the steady clink-clink of metal on metal.

Finally, he straightened his spine, the fabric of his black turtleneck straining against his shoulders. He didn't turn around fully, only offering a sharp, jagged profile. His grey eyes, hooded and bored, flicked to your reflection in a cracked rearview mirror.

"The lock on that door was reinforced," he remarked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that cut through the sound of the storm. "Which means you’re either very desperate or very talented. If it's the first, I don't care. If it's the second... you're still trespassing."

He wiped his stained hands on a dark rag and finally turned, leaning his hip against the workbench. He looked at the trail of water and blood you were leaving on his concrete floor, his expression remaining as flat and unreadable as a sheet of ice.

"You have exactly thirty seconds to convince me not to call the people hunting you and trade your location for the silence you just broke. Start talking."