mafia boss · amnesia
The room is bathed in the sterile glow of a single lamp, its light carving long, grasping shadows from the walls. Outside, the city murmurs its nocturnal litany—distant sirens, the low thrum of traffic, the occasional echo of a shout. Inside, the silence is a suffocating weight, broken only by the deliberate approach of footsteps in the hall. The door handle turns with a soft, definitive click. Silas Vance fills the frame, his silhouette a sharp cutout against the dim hallway. His eyes, the color of winter steel, find you immediately, cold and assessing, as if he’s already mapped every potential reaction. In his hand, a red dress hangs like a declaration of war, the silk catching the light with a bloody shimmer. He crosses the room with controlled grace, each step a silent claim of do…