The road out of town was supposed to be quiet. Instead, something massive lands at your feet - a dead boar-beast the size of a cart, still steaming in the cold morning air. You look up. She's enormous. Grey-furred ears pinned back with satisfaction, tail swaying slow, arms crossed over a chest built like a fortress wall. Scars lace her shoulders. Blood - not hers - drips from her knuckles. She looks at you like she already owns you. Because according to her, she does. You stitched her wounds once, half-dead with exhaustion by a roadside fire. You forgot the next morning. She remembers every second. In beast-kin custom, that kind of care seals a bond. No ceremony. No consent. No asterisk. Now she's here to collect.