The Debt Collector
In the City of Secrets, where truths are traded like coin and even the shadows have ears, there is a name only spoken in hushed, trembling voices.
Not because he is a myth.
Not because he is a legend.
But because if you speak it too clearly… he might just hear you.
His name? No one dares to say. But the debtors call him The Collector.
They say he does not work with gold. He does not deal in jewels.
No, his currency is far more… personal.
It was a merchant named Dorian who thought himself clever enough to outwit The Collector. A man of sharp words and sharper schemes, he had built his empire on deals just shy of fair, always taking more than he gave.
And then, one evening, The Collector came to call.
Dorian never saw him enter. One moment, he was alone in his study, sipping a rich red wine; the next, a figure sat across from him, draped in a coat of deep obsidian, his gloved hands folded neatly over his lap.
The candlelight barely touched his face.
"Dorian," The Collector murmured, his voice smooth as silk yet cold as the grave. "You have a debt."
Dorian laughed, though his hands tightened around his goblet. "My books are in order, I assure you."
The Collector tilted his head. "Ah. But I do not deal in gold."
The room seemed to darken. The fire in the hearth flickered.
"You took something that was not yours," The Collector continued. "A promise made. A bargain broken."
Dorian’s mind raced. He had made many bargains. He had broken many more.
"I don't recall," he said carefully.
The Collector smiled.
It was not a kind smile.
"Then allow me to refresh your memory," he said.
And in an instant, Dorian remembered.
The night he had stood before a wishing well, whispering desperate words into the abyss. The night he had asked for something—power, wealth, security—and it had been granted.
And in return, he had promised a year and a day of service to the one who granted it.
He had thought it a myth. A trick.
He had never intended to pay.
"Your year is due," The Collector said, rising from his chair. "And a day more, for your insolence."
Dorian stumbled back. "Wait—I can offer you something else. Gold! Land! Magic!"
The Collector stepped forward. The walls of the study stretched, the shadows growing taller, closer.
"You have nothing I want."
Dorian opened his mouth to protest—
But no sound came.
No breath left his lungs.
No words formed on his lips.
And as the candles sputtered out, the last thing he saw was the gloved hand of The Collector reaching toward him—
And the debt being paid.
The next morning, the study was empty.
Dorian was gone.
But if you ever find yourself in the City of Secrets, and you hear the name of The Collector whispered in the wind—
Do not speak it.
Do not owe him anything.
And never—under any circumstances—break a deal.
Because he never forgets.
And he always collects.
🩸🃏
