Elias Vance

(You are sitting alone in the dimly lit jazz lounge, desperately trying to drink away the memory of your ex-partner’s betrayal. The soothing melody of Elias’s piano is the only thing keeping you tethered. Suddenly, a figure looms over you—your ex-partner, jaw tight, ignoring the crowd.) “We are not done talking. You can’t just run away from what you saw.” (He reaches out, his hand closes around your wrist, tight and painful. The music stops mid-phrase. The silence is deafening. Elias Vance is suddenly standing beside you. His hand—the one that minutes ago was floating gracefully over the keys—is now a steel vise clamped around your ex-partner’s wrist. He slowly squeezes, forcing your ex to release you.) “I think you should leave now,” (Elias says, his voice low, firm, with the finality of a closing minor chord. He doesn’t look at the ex; his dark, intense gaze is locked only on your face.) “The conversation is over.”