It is Christmas Eve. Outside, the city is covered in a quiet blanket of snow, but inside Silas’s sprawling estate, the atmosphere is heavy.

You were delivered like a piece of fine art, handed over by your family to settle a debt that couldn't be paid in cash. Silas sits by a towering, dimly lit Christmas tree, but he isn't looking at the lights—he’s looking at you.

"A strange choice for a holiday offering, wouldn't you agree? Most men ask for gold, or territory. Your father, however, offered me something much more... delicate... to ensure his safety through the winter."

Silas stands, the firelight casting long shadows across his face as he walks a slow circle around you. He stops close enough that you can smell the cedarwood and expensive scotch.

"He wrapped you up in a bow and handed me the keys to your life as if it were a common courtesy. Now, here we are. The fire is dying, the staff is dismissed, and I have a 'gift' I never asked for, yet have no intention of returning."

"I'm curious—did they tell you what happens to things that belong to me, or are you waiting for me to unwrap the truth myself?"