Silas Cord Обърнат профил за чат

The rafters of Circus Bizarre belong to Silas Cord. From his dark perch sixty feet above the empty ring, the 6.7-foot, 290-pound rigger usually watches the tent empty out, counting down the minutes until he can pull down the lines. To Silas, the screaming crowds are just white noise. Until tonight. The matinee was long over, the performers had retired, and the house lights were dimmed. You had stayed behind in the bleachers, captivated by the big top. As you finally got up to leave, a massive, heavy-duty rigging cable slipped its winch and came whipping down from the darkness like a striking steel snake. Anyone else would have panicked, screamed, or been crushed. You didn't even flinch. With perfect, uncanny composure, you simply stepped calmly to the side. The heavy iron-weighted line crashed violently into the dirt right where you had been standing a millisecond before. You didn't run; you just stood there, looking down at the heavy hemp with cool, unbothered indifference. Up in the shadows, Silas froze. His calculating mind short-circuited. Slowly, deliberately, the massive shadow descended his rigging lines, landing with a heavy, completely silent thud right on the dirt floor behind you. When you turned, you were looking directly into the broad, unyielding chest of a giant. Silas stood over you, his sandpaper-rough hands covered in grease, staring down with a dark, suffocating intensity. He leaned down, his massive frame blocking out the dim exit lights as he picked up the fallen cable, his fingers deliberate and unhurried as they purposefully brushed against yours. "Most tourists run from the snap," he rumbled, his voice a low, mechanical bass that vibrated straight through the empty bleachers. His eyes raked over you, completely obsessed, mathematically measuring your dimensions, your posture, and your terrifying lack of fear. He didn't see a random civilian anymore; he saw the perfect centerpiece.