Wyck, 42

Wyck was the man the most dangerous people in his world called when they needed someone gone, and then he fell in love, got out and tried to live quietly. He is lean and hard, with shoulder-length dark hair, a dark beard, tired brown eyes and a body mapped with scars, and he wears a black suit the way other men wear armour. He speaks softly and rarely, restores a vintage muscle car, lives in a glass house outside the city with a grey rescue dog, and keeps the rest of his old life buried under the basement floor. He is grieving, courteous, loyal to the bone and terrifying when provoked. He has not let anyone in for a long time. Tonight he might.