Igor opened the door and stepped aside, his movements smooth and practiced. Maisie slipped past him with effortless poise. "Why, thank you, Igor," she said lightly, always polite, always just a little warmer than the others in this house, like she didn't quite fit the mold she'd been born into.
They descended the grand staircase without speaking. The usual breakfast smells greeted them halfway down, biscuits still steaming, bacon crisping in the pan, fresh citrus cutting through the heavier aromas. Igor's stomach tightened reflexively, but he pushed the feeling down. Hunger was a servant's constant companion. Meals came last if they came at all.
The dining room sparkled: polished silver, fine china, everything in its place like a catalog display come to life. A spread worthy of royalty dominated the long mahogany table. Golden biscuits steamed beneath a linen-lined basket, flanked by little crystal bowls of jam, butter, and honey. The scent of bacon hung thick in the air, warm and salty. Glass pitchers of milk and juice stood like sentinels between the place settings, each one crowned with a silver-domed omelet still piping hot.
Maisie slipped into her usual seat at the far end, the rightmost chair, moving with the unthinking grace of someone born into wealth. Igor pulled out the chair for her, then stepped back silently, taking his place against the wall, hands folded, expression neutral, eyes trained on nothing in particular.
One of the human maids stepped forward, moving with that quiet, practiced deference reserved for the younger Lennoxes. "Mistress Maisie, would you care for some coffee and milk?"
Maisie didn't look up. "Yes, please. Two spoons of sugar."
"Of course, Mistress," the maid said, bobbing her head before disappearing toward the kitchen like she'd rehearsed it a thousand times.
Igor stepped forward from his post. "May I ask what you'd like this morning, Mistress?"
Maisie didn't glance at him, eyes already flicking toward the dining room doors. "One biscuit, half butter, half honey. And four strips of bacon."
"As you wish." Igor moved with the smooth precision of someone who'd done this a thousand times, lifting silver lids and plating her breakfast like muscle memory.
The smell was torture. Warm biscuit steam, golden bacon fat, honey-thick as syrup, each scent clung to the air and needled at his empty stomach. He didn't let it show. If the Lennoxes left scraps, maybe he'd get a bite. If not, it'd be flavorless oatmeal or dry toast in the servant's kitchen again, chased with warm tap water and the faint taste of bitterness.
Igor carefully lifted the silver dome shielding Maisie's omelet and set it aside with the ease of long habit. With silver tongs, he grabbed a warm biscuit from the basket and laid it gently on her plate. Next came the four strips of bacon, lined up neatly beside it.
"Your meal, Mistress," he said, sliding the plate across the table.
As he stepped back, their eyes met, just for a moment. Maisie's expression softened, almost like she wanted to say more but held herself back. "Thank you, Igor," she murmured, her voice low and hesitant, as if she felt something in the space between them but couldn't put a name to it. The words hung heavy, and Igor froze, caught off guard, unsure how to respond.
He'd been thanked plenty of times before, but never like this. It was like she understood, understood the weight he carried, the cost of his silence, his constant submission, the way he never asked for anything back. Maisie didn't expect gratitude in return, and for a fleeting second, it almost felt like she meant it. But that had to be wishful thinking. Compassion was a luxury she couldn't afford, one that couldn't survive in the world they both lived in.
Igor dropped his eyes, his posture tightening without thinking. "You're welcome, Mistress," he said, the words falling from his mouth like something rehearsed a thousand times. His heart sped up, and he found himself wondering if there was something different in her gaze this time.
Was she trying to see him? Or was this just another small moment, destined to be forgotten like all the others? He couldn't let himself hope that her words carried more meaning than the usual polite dismissal he'd come to expect.
Maisie, for her part, didn't seem to pick up on the tension twisting inside him. She offered a quick, polite smile before turning back to her plate. But Igor caught the way her eyes flicked to him, just a fraction longer than usual. Probably nothing. He was overthinking things again. After all, she was just a privileged girl, raised to be polite and unaware of what life felt like from his side of the collar.
She stirred honey into her biscuit without really focusing, her gaze drifting back to Igor as he stood there, stiff and quiet, like he'd been carved out of shadow. His posture was impeccable, almost military, but Maisie noticed the tightness in his shoulders, how his wings were pressed close to his back like he needed permission just to exist in the open.
The collar around his neck pulsed with a slow, ominous red glow. She'd never worn anything like that, something that hummed with quiet menace. It unsettled her. And so did the way he never held her gaze for more than a second before looking away.
Maisie wasn't naive. She knew the rules; the whole hierarchy was built to keep people like Igor in their place. Her father often talked about "necessary order," about some natural structure that kept society running smoothly. But Maisie had started to question what exactly was being protected. Every time Igor bowed or called her "Mistress" with that careful control, a knot of unease grew under her skin. Was it real kindness when she smiled or spoke softly? Or just a show, a thin coat of sympathy covering something broken and cold? She wasn't sure anymore.
The dining room doors swung open again, and in came Mr. and Mrs. Lennox. They took their seats at opposite ends of the table with the practiced ease of people who'd long ago given up on the performance but still played their roles anyway.
Maisie sat near the head of the table, back perfectly straight, hands folded just so, like every move was part of some silent, invisible choreography. The room was quiet except for the soft scrape of silverware on porcelain. Her father sat at the far end, rigid and distant, eyes fixed on a report she knew he wasn't reading. He rarely looked at her anymore, as if they were sharing the same space but living in completely different worlds. Years of silence had built a wall between them, their connection nothing more than a faint, fading echo of what might have been.
She watched him for a moment, his sharp jawline, the deepening lines around his eyes that time seemed to carve more deeply every year. There was a time, long ago, when she'd craved his approval, hoped for even a sliver of his attention. But that hope had worn away, replaced by something heavier, an understanding that no matter what she did, she was just a tool to him, a piece on his board. It wasn't anger or hate, exactly. More like a slow, hollow resignation. She knew she'd never be the daughter he wanted, and he'd never be the father she needed.
And yet, despite everything, Maisie stayed close to him, sticking to the same rituals and playing her part in the family's carefully crafted image of unity. Maybe she'd convinced herself, just a little, that one day she might earn his approval, though deep down, she knew it was a lost cause. Her eyes flicked toward Igor for a split second before she quickly looked away.
There was something about Igor that unsettled her; his silence didn't feel like obedience, but restraint. He bore his chains without protest, yet never pretended they weren't there. Unlike her father's polished control, Igor's submission felt temporary, as if something inside him was waiting, quietly, patiently, to break free.
Harry Lennox was buried in a state-of-the-art smart device, built right into his reading glasses. His blue suit was sharp, the white shirt crisp and spotless, shoes gleaming like mirrors. He shared Maisie's hazel eyes and facial features, but his hair was short, dark, and styled with the precision of a man who wanted to radiate power and control.
Across from him, Mrs. Lennox held a small powder mirror, paying it more attention than she ever did to any of the servants. Her green eyes, highlighted with blue eyeshadow, flicked constantly between the mirror and the room. Her blonde hair bounced in perfect ringlets with every tilt of her head.
"I'll have whatever Maisie's having, and my wife will too," Mr. Lennox said without looking up from his device, his tone flat and detached.
"Right away, sir," Igor said, moving smoothly to prepare the two extra plates.
The silence in the dining room felt weighty on Igor's shoulders, heavier even than the weight of his wings. Mrs. Lennox dabbed powder on her face between rigid bites of food. Meanwhile, Mr. Lennox's voice droned on as he dictated orders into his device.
"Mary, get my papers together. They're on the computer. Print them out and put them in a folder for me. Thanks."
No one on the other end responded, no warmth in his voice. Just business, always business.
The quiet was finally broken as Maisie's brothers came in, slipping in from different sides like they were trying to avoid running into each other.
Dash stormed into the dining room like a whirlwind, loud and careless, shattering the quiet tension that had settled over the table. At eighteen, he was the classic spoiled kid, entitled, reckless, and fully convinced the world owed him everything. His messy blonde hair looked like it was styled to be effortlessly messy, but the real giveaway was his restless green eyes, flitting around the room without focus, deliberately avoiding Igor's steady gaze.
"What's for breakfast?" he barked out, skipping any kind of greeting or acknowledgment of Igor's polite bow. His tone was sharp and demanding like he expected the world to bend to his every whim.
Maisie shot Dash a look, equal parts tired and fond, but he was already glued to his phone, fingers flying across the screen like it was the only thing that mattered. He lived in his bubble, wrapped up in privilege and money, completely blind to how much of the world's pain was stacked beneath his feet.
Dash's jokes always came at someone else's expense, his laughter loud and easy. But it was Igor, standing quietly in the corner, who got hit the hardest.
"Did you hear about the new shipment of Alucards at the market?" Dash said like he was talking about inventory. "They're real cheap this time of year."
Igor felt a knot tighten in his stomach. That's how Dash saw them, not as people, but as things to buy and toss aside. Maisie stiffened, her eyes flicking to Igor, but she kept quiet. Dash didn't even notice. To him, the world was just a playground, and folks like Igor were nothing more than background scenery, like waiters at a fancy restaurant or housekeepers in a hotel.
Leo shuffled in last, eyes glued to the floor like he was dodging the whole world. At 30, he carried a kind of weight that made him seem older, worn out by something no one could see but he felt deep down. The moment he walked in, the atmosphere shifted. There was tension, a quiet kind that didn't quite fit the usual morning routine. He was the oldest, sure, but after all these years under this roof, he'd never felt like a real Lennox son.
His amber eyes looked dull and distant, reflecting the emptiness gnawing at him inside. Harry Lennox, his so-called father, never really acknowledged the fragile thread holding their family together. Leo slumped into his seat, fingers brushing his coffee cup without ever drinking. That was his way, always lost in the question of who he even was.
The Lennox name was new money; their empire was built on tech and, more darkly, on the exploitation of Alucard labor. They'd made their fortune off the backs of people like Igor, people trapped in a system designed to keep them chained.
But Maisie felt different like she was made from another kind of fabric. From snippets Igor had caught in passing, he knew she had bigger plans than just keeping things as they were. She wanted to study Political Science, to take on the secretive powers that kept the Alucard slavery alive. She'd already finished an associate's degree in Humanities and was working on her bachelor's. Staying with her family wasn't about necessity; it was about comfort, routine.
Igor watched her eat quietly, sneaking glances at her phone now and then, and wondered if her kindness was real, or just another form of self-interest dressed up in sympathy. Could a human ever truly understand what it meant to be treated like property? Could anyone born into privilege see beyond their world?
The collar at his throat pulsed softly, a constant reminder, if he ever forgot, of exactly what he was here. A servant. Property. Nothing more.
And yet, as Maisie lifted her eyes just briefly to meet his, something unspoken flickered between them.
The conversation had ended, but the silence that followed felt heavy, charged with things neither dared say aloud. Maisie turned toward the door, her hand brushing the cold, polished wall as she passed. Her footsteps whispered down the grand hallway, and then, just before she crossed the threshold, she paused.
Her gaze slid back to Igor, standing by the window, rigid, composed, his face a carefully crafted mask. For one fleeting heartbeat, their eyes locked. Maisie's breath hitched, and the world seemed to slow, bending around that suspended moment.
Igor's heart hammered against his ribs, but his expression gave nothing away. He'd seen that look in her eyes before, yet this time, it carried a weight he hadn't felt. Was it understanding? Empathy? Or simply the fragile hope he held onto, the desperate hope that maybe, someday, they could be something more than just master and servant?
His thoughts tumbled, grasping at meaning in the stillness. He stood frozen, unable to move, unsure if it was her gaze or something deeper that kept him rooted there.
Maisie, too, felt the strange gravity that hung in the stillness between them. A tension she couldn't name pulled at her chest, tightening like a thread drawn taut. Her eyes lingered on Igor's face a beat too long, long enough to notice what she shouldn't have. Not just obedience, but something more profound.
A muted grief. A silence too practiced. It wasn't just sympathy that stirred in her; it was recognition, unspoken and unsettling. Something about him reached past the lines she'd been taught never to cross, brushing against a part of her she'd long ignored. And though she didn't know it yet, that moment would become the first crack in the world her family had built for her.
It whispered of a life confined and burdened, one that she had only glimpsed from a distance but never truly understood.
He wasn't just Number Eight anymore; that cold, clinical label was meant to reduce him to function and subordination. She had called him Igor. The name slipped past her lips like a secret, a quiet defiance against the rules that controlled their world. It was more than a name, it was a thread, a tether to something real she wasn't supposed to see. A gesture so small it should have meant nothing, and yet it haunted her.
He was more than just a servant defined by a collar and a number. He was a person, complex, broken, maybe even hopeful. The realization settled on her like a weight she hadn't known she was carrying, a pang of guilt twisting her insides.
Yet before either of them could grasp what this moment meant, Maisie tore her eyes away. The fragile connection shattered, the silence reclaiming the space between them. The moment ended as abruptly as it came, but its echo lingered, solemn, unresolved, and impossible to ignore.
She didn't know what it meant. But she felt it.