The mansion towered as a monument to excess. Its grand halls held gilded edges and intricate murals. The paintings depicted ancient myths. Chandeliers cast a golden glow over the high-vaulted ceilings. Their crystals shimmered like stardust. Wealth did not make Conan’s home remarkable. The creatures that roamed its opulent corridors did.

  Cats of all sizes and breeds filled the mansion. They lounged on velvet cushions. They slinked between marble columns. They curled up on embroidered tapestries. Sleek Siamese perched on mahogany bookshelves. Their watchful eyes gleamed. A massive Maine Coon stretched across an antique piano. Its tail flicked idly. The true rulers of the house moved with regal grace. A panther reclined on a raised platform. It licked its ebony paws with slow ease. Two golden-eyed lynxes rested atop the grand staircase. They watched the world below like silent sentinels. A silver-maned lion lounged by the fireplace. Its deep purring rumbled like distant thunder.

  Conan sat among the untamed elegance. He reclined in a lush leather armchair. He wore a silk robe embroidered with symbols from forgotten civilizations. He swirled a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He watched his feline companions with quiet amusement.

  The doorbell rang. A deep chime echoed through the mansion’s halls. The lion by the fire flicked an ear but stayed still. Conan exhaled slowly. He seemed reluctant to be disturbed.

  His butler stepped into the doorway. He was an older gentleman with a neatly trimmed beard. He carried an air of unshakable composure.

  "Sir, you have a visitor."

  Conan sighed, setting his glass aside. He already knew who it was. He had expected this visit.

  "Let him in," he said, his voice rich and unhurried.

  The butler gave a small nod and left down the hall. Moments later, Clavius stepped inside. His sharp eyes scanned the mansion’s feline inhabitants. His face showed no surprise. He had stopped questioning Conan’s eccentricities long ago.

  Conan’s lips curled into a smirk as he leaned back in his chair, draping one arm over the side.

  "Well, well. The Old Dog comes sniffing at my door."

  His voice carried the warmth of nostalgia, yet beneath it, the sharp edge of knowing. He gestured toward the seat across from him, his fingers adorned with rings that caught the firelight.

  "Come, Clavius. Tell me why you've come."

  Conan was born into unimaginable wealth. He was the only son of an oil magnate and a gambling baroness. His father, Victor Moreau, built an empire from black gold. His mother, Lady Evangeline Moreau, ruled the gambling world. Her influence stretched across continents. Together, they ruled a kingdom of excess. Power was the only true currency.

  Conan grew up in luxury. Crystal chandeliers lit marble halls. Endless banquets filled the nights. Men whispered of fortunes and feuds. None of it fascinated him. He cared nothing for politics. Businessmen did not interest him. He saw only false smiles and hidden daggers.

  It was the cats that captured his soul.

  At the age of eight, Conan made a discovery that would define his life. He could speak to cats. He did not train them like pets. He spoke to them like old friends. When he called, they answered. When he listened, they spoke. It was a gift. It was rare and inexplicable. An unspoken language connected him to the creatures of the night.

  His father prepared him for boardrooms. His mother groomed him for the world of vice. Conan spent his days with his feline companions. He understood them better than people. Their eyes flickered with unspoken secrets. Their gestures formed a silent code. They moved between worlds unnoticed and unseen.

  Then, one fateful night, the world he had known was reduced to nothing.

  His parents had many enemies. None were more dangerous than the Ravini Family. This rival mafia syndicate had long sought to dismantle the Moreau dynasty. They struck with precision. They poisoned Victor and Evangeline during a high-profile gala. The glasses shattered. The screams rang out. It was already too late. The Moreau empire fell into chaos.

  Conan, only sixteen, was left with nothing.

  For weeks, he vanished, slipping between alleyways and shadows, surviving on the streets as his inheritance was divided like carrion among vultures. But grief was not his companion—rage was.

  He learned that the Ravini Family had a hidden operation at the docks, smuggling exotic animals—lions, tigers, panthers, beasts meant to be sold into a cruel underground market. It was there, in the darkened warehouse by the sea, that Conan set his plan into motion.

  He moved like a ghost, slipping past guards, unlocking cages, whispering words of liberation into the ears of creatures bred for captivity. When the first gunshot rang out, the jungle was unleashed upon the city.

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  The Ravini smugglers never stood a chance.

  The lions roared, their claws tearing through flesh, their fangs sinking into the throats of their captors. Tigers pounced from the shadows, panthers struck like assassins, and Conan—clad in black, eyes alight with vengeance—walked among them as their king. The slaughter was swift, brutal, and absolute.

  By dawn, the Ravini docks were drenched in blood, their men ripped apart like prey. The legend of the "Feral Prince" spread like wildfire, and before long, Conan didn’t need to seize power—it was given to him. Men whispered his name in fear, but none dared to challenge him.

  Over the years, Conan built an empire of his own, not in oil or cards, but in crime. He controlled the underworld through strategy, intimidation, and a force no man could counter—his feline army. He moved with the grace of a panther and struck with the precision of a tiger. And unlike the others who ruled with greed and ambition, Conan cared only for one thing: loyalty.

  It was through this rise that he met Mr. Rofford, a man as cunning as he was powerful. They recognized something in each other—a mutual understanding of control, of power, of the delicate balance between civilization and the wild. An alliance was formed.

  Then came Clavius. A boy not unlike himself, shaped by loss, forged in hardship. Conan saw in him a potential few others did. He took the boy under his wing, teaching him not just how to survive, but how to rule. He taught him the art of deception, the psychology of control, and the elegance of organized crime.

  "People are like cats, Clavius," Conan once told him. "They pretend to be independent, but all of them will kneel for the right master."

  Now, years later, as Clavius stood at his doorstep once more, Conan smirked, sipping his drink as his lions prowled in the firelight. He had taught the boy well.

  And now, it seemed, the Old Dog had come back for another lesson.

  The grand fireplace crackled with slow-burning embers, casting shifting shadows across the lavish chamber. The scent of aged whiskey and exotic incense hung in the air, mingling with the faint musk of feline presence. A sleek black panther lounged lazily near Conan’s chair, its golden eyes half-lidded in contentment. A pair of lynxes sprawled across the rug like living statues, ears twitching at every small noise.

  Clavius sat across from Conan in a deep leather chair, a glass of dark liquor in his hand. The two men had seen much together, survived wars waged in the underworld, and emerged sharper for it.

  "Remember the warehouse job?" Conan mused, rolling his glass in his palm. His robe shimmered with embroidered golden patterns, shifting like a liquid under the dim light. "The one near the old train yards?"

  Clavius let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "How could I forget? Your damn panther scared the hell out of everyone. Those idiots thought the place was haunted when they heard growling from the shadows."

  Conan smirked, brushing his fingers through the thick mane of the lion resting beside his chair. "I still remember the look on that poor bastard’s face when she leaped at him. He screamed like a dying violin."

  Clavius took a slow sip of his drink. "And then there was the casino brawl. That one got messy."

  "Messy?" Conan arched a brow. "Clavius, you flipped a man over a baccarat table and sent him crashing into the chandelier. That wasn’t messy—that was art."

  Clavius exhaled through his nose, amused. For a moment, it was easy to forget why he had come, lost in the nostalgia of old battles, old victories. But the weight of his mission pressed on him like a phantom hand on his shoulder. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  "Conan… I need your help." His voice carried the weight of urgency.

  Conan’s expression didn’t change, but the way his fingers drummed idly against his glass spoke volumes. "I figured as much." He leaned back, stretching like a cat at rest but never off-guard. "Tell me."

  Clavius reached into his coat and pulled out a photograph. He placed it on the polished table between them. The soft glow of the firelight illuminated the face of Mr. Rofford’s daughter.

  "She’s missing." Clavius' voice was low. "Taken, possibly. I don’t have enough leads yet, but I know the longer we wait, the worse this gets."

  Conan picked up the photo, studying the delicate features of the woman in the image. His expression didn’t betray much, but his grip on the picture tightened slightly. He had known Mr. Rofford for years. The man was not easily shaken, but a missing daughter? That was enough to turn even a king into a desperate father.

  "And you came to me because…?" Conan asked, though he already knew the answer.

  "Because no one knows this city’s underbelly like you do," Clavius replied. "You have ears where others don’t. And more importantly, if there’s a deal being made, a ransom, or a trade, someone in your circles will hear about it."

  Conan exhaled through his nose, setting the photograph down with a quiet tap of his fingers. "A lost daughter of an old friend… And now the Old Dog comes asking for a favor." He smirked slightly, though there was no real mirth behind it. He swirled his drink once before downing the rest in one smooth motion.

  Then, without hesitation, he nodded.

  "I’ll help you, Clavius."

  The panther at his feet lifted its head as if sensing the shift in the air.

  "I’ll have my people put out feelers, and my cats will watch the streets. If she’s still in this city, we’ll find her." Conan’s gaze darkened, his smirk fading into something more serious. "And if someone has taken her… well, they’ll wish they hadn’t."

  Clavius met his gaze, knowing full well what that meant.

  "Good," he said simply. "Then let’s begin."