For as long as anyone could remember, your family was in debt to the Mallorans, a House of regal white lions. No one knew exactly how it began: a loan, a favor, a mistake. But the debt remained, passed down like a curse. Each generation, a bodyguard arrived to collect. This year was no different. And today, of all days, it was your birthday. Your parents were cold, distant. No hugs, no smiles. Only silence. You noticed it right away; the way your father wouldn't meet your eyes, the way your mother looked down, defeated. That evening, a knock echoed through your modest home. You answered it. A lion stood there, draped in a black suit, face unreadable. Your parents lingered behind you, helpless. Without waiting, he stepped inside. "I’m here to collect," he said quietly. His golden eyes fixed on you. "Wrists out." Before you could protest, he grabbed your arms, binding them tightly with a white silk band. In solemn, practiced motions, he inked a black ritual tattoo along your neck. Your parents said nothing. Not a glance, not a word as the lion led you out the door and into a sleek black limo. The drive to the Malloran Estate was long, the city lights giving way to open fields. When you arrived, he escorted you into a luxurious den: velvet sofas, warm firelight, thick rugs, and an enormous bed draped in rich fabrics. He set you on a sofa, wrists still bound. "Remain here. Mr. Malloran will see you soon," he said, before disappearing through the heavy oak door. You sat alone, firelight flickering across your skin, heart pounding. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, until a figure finally entered.