The morning came with the usual faint buzzing from the collar around Igor's neck. His crimson eyes flickered open at six a.m. sharp, a habit born of survival—a way to avoid electrocution, another day like any other.
He had only thirty seconds to leave his soft, warm cot, one of the only good things he maintained, and touch that infernal device on the wall. All to prove to his masters that he would obey them without hesitation.
Pale sunlight came through a crack in the curtain from the sole window of his room, which was tiny for a guy his size, but was acceptable for a servant of his status, and at least he didn't have to share space anymore.
He rolled out of the cot and punched a wall-mounted button. He knew that staying in bed would bring only anguish and despair—an electric shock, burning flesh, the skin of his neck searing away.
He was bound to the House of Lennox—servant, slave, the terms didn't matter. The choker was surgically fused to his neck, a permanent fixture.
The wall started to beep, a warning. He had stood there too long.
He pressed the button again, and then he held and spoke into a wall-mounted communicator. "Please give me a moment as I finish getting dressed." They weren't completely without mercy if he just talked to them.
"Number Eight, you've been awake for a full minute and still aren't dressed. Please be more prompt next time." The serious voice came from Mr. Marlow, the estate's head manager.
"Yes, sir." Igor went to get changed.
He pulled his uniform from the black armoire. Inside hung several spotless, pressed, purple dress shirts, each embroidered with an LC — Lennox Corp. Red ties, one for each day, hung from a tie hanger. Multiple pairs of matching black slacks and gloves were all folded inside the drawers, and his red belt hung from a hook on the side.
"Ooh." He grimaced from a twinge of pain when he was taking off his gray sleeping sweatshirt. He had forgotten to be gentle; one of his bound wings had been mangled long ago for reasons he didn't remember, and it had never fully healed.
He sometimes massaged and stretched that wing for a little relief, but he didn't have time for it this early. The skin of his wings felt off compared to the rest of his body; they reminded him of the faux leather jacket his mistress would ask him to lay out for her. Synthetic. Out of place.
Full relief was impossible; the metal plates pinning his shoulders were woven into his wings, locking them in place. They limited his movements, causing him to become stiff and inflexible.
Despite the pain, he put on the rest of his uniform, finishing with his ebony dress shoes, and left the room in a blur, making his way to the bathroom across the hall.
"Hello, handsome." He winked at his reflection. If nobody else bothered to admire him, he'd happily do it himself.
He was the fairest of them all, like a prince from a forgotten fairy tale, his sharp cheekbones catching the light. His red hair, wild and spiny, needed brushing. He swept it to one side: one of the few choices he could make in his life. His physique was strong and honed, and black spiral tattoos wound around his body and arms, questions he had about a past he couldn't recall.
He walked past the other non-human servants—wingless versions of himself, Alucards fettered much like him. He towered over them, and they averted their eyes when he passed. Maybe it was fear or contempt; he never understood their reasons. Over time, he learned to keep his head down and stay quiet within the Lennox mansion.
He headed off to his duty, toward the north wing of the estate, where Mistress Maisie's bedroom was situated. Of everyone in the family, she gave him the most respect, but her politeness didn't mean he was her equal. He stayed guarded around her, despite yearning to let her learn who hewas—to get to know him.
He rapped on her ornate, embroidered door.
"Enter, Igor," she said, yawning.
Maisie sat with perfect posture at her vanity, her smooth chocolate-brown hair cascading down her back to the hem of her shirt. The maids usually tied it up with rosy velvet bows trimmed in silk, but it was still early. She needed to get dressed first—and choosing her outfit for the day was part of his job.
He was her personal servant—her most important slave. He was bound to her will, but the other servants seemed envious. He listened to their whispering. It didn't matter that the job was easy—he would never be free to make choices. Like the others, he was snared, tied to a life not his.
Despite her sleepy appearance, Igor noticed an intensity in her hazel eyes, as if she were thinking. At twenty, she moved with confidence that made her appear older than he had once perceived.
"Igor, can you get my makeup for me?" She said in a drowsy state, with her hand sticking out.
He took a black bag, embroidered in gold with her initials—'ML'—from a shelf in her closet and placed it in her hand, making sure she held it firmly, keeping his head down.
"There you are, Mistress." Their fingers brushed by accident, sending a jolt through him. He felt a rush of blood to his face—touch was not something he experienced often.
Without a word, she unzipped the bag and began skimming through it.
"Red or black today?" she amiably asked, holding up two tubes of lipstick. "Which do you think?"
He wasn't sure why she cared what he thought—did she need another opinion? He kept his head bowed, not sure how to answer.
"Igor?" Her tone was firmer this time.
He knew he needed to respond, even if it didn't matter; she would likely choose what she wanted anyway.
"If I may, Mistress… the maroon. It brings out your hair."
He peeked upward, keeping his head bowed, and saw in the mirror that she was smiling—subtly—as she twirled a lock.
"Thank you, Igor." She applied the red carefully, puckering and blotting her lips to even it out. He lifted his head a little more. She glanced at him from her chair, saying nothing about his shallower bow. Her eyes looked hopeful—excited, even.
"How do I look?"
Igor redirected his gaze. "Mistress, I am not allowed to give opinions on appearance, even to you."
Her expression shifted—there was a flicker of disappointment or frustration. Her brow furrowed, and her eyes narrowed. She bit her lower lip, but just as fast, her face straightened, as if nothing had happened.
It was as if there were a break in the mask she wore everywhere—just for him.
Ten years in the mansion, yet he still didn't fully understand the breadth of human emotions. His range was smaller, but when he did feel something, it was intense.
After that brief glitch in her usual demeanor, he picked out a nice outfit for her. She needed something suitable for her new internship at Angel Corporation's headquarters, a business partner of her father's.
He left her to change, and after that waited for the maids to tie up her hair.
Back at her vanity mirror, Maisie looked professional and stylish in a violet, flowing blouse over her slim frame, paired with white, flowing slacks. A thin leather belt and black boots. Her hair was in a bun with one of her signature ribbons tied in a neat bow. She wore her special heart locket, which she always seemed to have on; he had thought maybe it was her lucky charm?
She wore pink eyeshadow that shimmered in the light, drawing attention to the gold flecks in her hazel eyes. Her creamy skin made the maroon lipstick stand out sharply. Her smile always brightened up his day.
His heart began to race, and he clenched his fists; his nails twitched, attempting to extend through his gloves, but he forced them back. He knew it was wrong. He saw that she was breathtakingly beautiful, but he had to push the thought down as much as he could.
His fate was sealed, as was that of every one of his kind. Like all servants, he had been briefed on this when assigned to the Lennox mansion, and at the same time, his memories of what came before were hazy. He knew he had existed before the mansion, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make himself remember.
As he understood it, he was to be paired with another Alucard mate.
He was not to mingle with the masters—or with any other humans- because he was considered less than human. And that was strictly forbidden. Engineered in labs, most Alucards suffered infertility or other complications. It was almost a miracle that they could have children at all.
They were commodities, not individuals. Their offspring were a calculated production. The thought of bringing more Alucard children into the world to become enslaved by the humans boiled his blood.
Currently, Alucard numbers were dwindling from a system that killed them too quickly. Some perished from extreme conditions, and some just ended it themselves instead of finishing their lives bound by chains.
He wasn't keen on hooking up with just anyone, either. He wanted to be mentally intrigued with them first. He wanted to feel something towards them. That felt like a fantasy because of his status in the mansion. There didn't seem to be any Alucard willing to give him a chance, and his encounters were limited to serving her.
Maisie.
He had watched her for a very long time. He didn't understand his feelings toward her, and he was torn between his discipline and the generosity and kindness she showed him.
There was a divide between his desires and reality. It was blasphemy for an alucard to be with a human; his feelings for Maisie were condemned to remain buried deep within his psyche. Those feelings easily rose to defy the odds, wearing down his defenses, and he felt a small sense of hope.
"It's time for breakfast, Mistress," Igor said, quiet but steady. "Your family is gathering shortly."
Maisie nodded and sighed. "Very well," she said.