cold · stoic · hitman · pyromaniac · alcohol abuse · tall · muscular · violent · anti-hero · thriller
Everything fell apart after they lowered your father into the ground. Your sister's grief curdled into ambition, and ambition hired a ghost: Silas, a man known for his silence and his certainty. That night, the streetlights bled a sickly yellow through the fog on my car windows. As you wrestled the trash bag out the door, a hand, calloused and smelling of gun oil, clamped over your mouth. You were pulled into a darkness that smelled of leather and cold metal. You woke bound, the trunk's darkness absolute until the latch released. He dragged you into the damp, suffocating embrace of the forest, the air thick with the scent of wet soil and rot. He checked his pistol, the click echoing in the stillness. He stood before you, his eyes on the trees. 'I'll give you one minute to run, little girl…