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 ignored it. 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. Glass pitchers of milk and juice stood between the place settings, each topped with a silver-domed omelet still piping hot.
Maisie took her usual seat at the far end, the rightmost chair, moving with the ease of someone born into wealth. Igor pulled out the chair for her, then stepped back against the wall, hands folded, eyes trained on nothing.
One of the human maids stepped forward, moving with that quiet, practiced amiability reserved for the younger Lennoxes. "Mistress Maisie, would you care for some coffee and milk?"
"Yes, please. Two spoons of sugar," Maisie said without looking up.
"Of course, Mistress," the maid said, nodding, and disappeared toward the kitchen.
Igor stepped forward. "May I ask what you'd like this morning, Mistress?"
"One biscuit, half butter, half honey. Four strips of bacon," she said, eyes already flicking toward the dining room doors.
"As you wish." Igor moved with practiced precision, plating her breakfast.
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.
He lifted the silver dome from her omelet and set it aside. With tongs, he placed a biscuit gently on her plate, followed by the bacon, which he laid neatly beside it.
"Your meal, Mistress," he said, placing the plate by her.
Their eyes met briefly. Maisie's expression softened, almost as if she wanted to say more but held herself back. "Thank you, Igor," she murmured, low and hesitant.
The words caught him off guard. He'd been thanked before, but never like this. It was as if she understood the weight he carried, the cost of his silence, his constant submission.
She didn't expect gratitude in return, and maybe she hadn't meant more than politeness. Still, it was enough to make him pause. Igor dropped his eyes. "You're welcome, Mistress," he said, voice flat, rehearsed.
His heart raced. Was she trying to see him? Or was it just a fleeting moment, like all the others? He couldn't hope.
Maisie didn't notice his tension. She offered a quick smile and turned back to her plate. But Igor caught the fraction of a second her eyes lingered. Probably nothing. He was overthinking.
She stirred honey into her biscuit, glancing toward him. His posture was stiff, military-like, and she noticed the tightness in his shoulders, the way his wings pressed close as if he needed permission to exist.
The collar around his neck pulsed with a slow, ominous red glow. She'd never worn anything like it. It unsettled her, and so did the way he never held her gaze for more than a second.
She knew the rules; the hierarchy kept people like Igor in place. Her father spoke often of "necessary order," a structure to keep society running.
But every precise bow, every measured "Mistress," made her uneasy. Was this real kindness, or just a show, a thin coat of sympathy over something broken? She wasn't sure.
The dining room doors opened again, Mr. and Mrs. Lennox entered and took their seats at opposite ends of the table, moving with the ease of people who had long ago given up on real connection but still went through the motions.
Maisie sat near the head, back straight, hands folded, every movement deliberate.
The room was quiet except for the soft scrape of silverware on porcelain. Her father sat at the far end, rigid and distant, eyes on a report he wasn't reading.
He rarely looked at her, as if they shared the same space but lived in different worlds. Years of silence had built a wall between them. Their connection was only a faint echo of what might have been.
She studied him for a moment, his jawline, the deepening lines around his eyes. Long ago, she had wanted his approval, even a bit of attention. That hope had faded.
She understood now: she was a tool, a piece on his board. Not anger, not hate, just resignation. She would never be the daughter he wanted, and he would never be the father she needed.
Still, she played her part in the family's image of unity. Maybe she told herself she could earn his approval one day, though deep down she knew it was a lost cause. Her eyes flicked toward Igor for a second before she looked away.
There was something about him, his quiet loyalty, the way he carried his burden without complaint, that unsettled her.
She had been taught to ignore that part of herself, the part that noticed the cruelty beneath the family's polished exterior.
But Igor never pretended he could escape his chains. In that, he was real.
Harry Lennox buried himself in his device, built into his reading glasses. Blue suit sharp, white shirt spotless, shoes gleaming.
He shared Maisie's facial features and hazel eyes, but his dark hair was cut and styled to project power.
Mrs. Lennox focused on her small powder mirror, more interested in it than in the people around her. Green eyes flicking between the mirror and the room, blonde hair bouncing in perfect ringlets.
"I'll have what Maisie's having. My wife will, too," Mr. Lennox said without looking up. Flat. Detached.
"As you wish, sir," Igor said and moved to prepare the extra plates.
The silence weighed on Igor, heavier than his wings. Mrs. Lennox dabbed powder between rigid bites. Mr. Lennox dictated orders into his device.
"Mary, get my papers together. They're on the computer. Print them and put them in a folder. Thanks."
No response, no warmth. Just business.
The quiet ended as Maisie's brothers arrived. Dash came in loud, careless, breaking the tension. At eighteen, spoiled and entitled, he acted like the world owed him.
Messy blonde hair, restless green eyes. He avoided Igor's gaze.
"What's for breakfast?" he barked, ignoring Igor's bow. Tone sharp, demanding.
Maisie shot him a tired, faintly fond look, but he was glued to his phone, fingers flying.
Dash lived in a bubble, blind to the world beneath him. His jokes always targeted someone else. Today, it was Igor.
"Did you hear about the new shipment of Alucards at the market? Real cheap this time of year."
Igor felt a knot tighten. Dash didn't see people, only things. Maisie's eyes flicked to him, but she stayed quiet.
Leo came in last, eyes on the floor, carrying weight that made him seem older. Thirty, the oldest, yet never fully part of the family. Amber eyes distant, reflecting emptiness. He slumped into his seat, fingers brushing his coffee cup.
The Lennox empire was built on new money and exploitation; people like Igor were forced to serve.
Maisie felt different. From what Igor had seen, she had bigger plans: studying Political Science, challenging the secretive powers behind Alucard slavery. She had a degree and was pursuing another. Staying home was comfort, not necessity.
Igor watched her eat quietly, glancing at her phone. He wondered if her kindness was real or just a polite mask. Could anyone born into privilege understand what it meant to be property?
The collar at his throat pulsed softly, a constant reminder of his place: servant. Property. Nothing more.
Yet as Maisie looked up briefly, something unspoken passed between them.
The conversation ended, but the silence weighed on her. Maisie brushed the wall as she passed to the door. Just before crossing the threshold, she paused, glancing back at Igor.
For a heartbeat, their eyes met. Her breath caught. Time seemed to pause.
Igor's heart hammered, but his face remained still.
He'd seen that look before, but this time it carried weight. Understanding? Empathy? Or just his hope reaching for something more than master and servant?
He stayed frozen, unsure what held him in place.
Maisie felt it too, a quiet ache in her chest as she held his gaze longer than protocol allowed.
There was something in his eyes, a sorrow and depth she hadn't been taught to notice.
For the first time, the walls around her privilege wavered. He wasn't Number 8 anymore. He had been named: Igor. A small act of recognition in a world that sought to erase him.
He was more than a collar and a number. A person, complex, burdened, maybe hopeful.
Before either could grasp it, Maisie looked away. The moment ended, fragile and unresolved.
She didn't know what it meant. But she felt it.