gor caught his reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. Pale skin over sharp bones, marked by the lack of sunlight. His red hair, untamed, was one of the few things he could control; always swept to one side.
Taller than most, lanky but hardened by years of work. Every line of his frame showed it. His wings, broad and bat-like, were folded tight, the dark membrane absorbing the light.
Igor's finger traced the worn spines of a few hidden books on the shelf by his bed, antique vampire novels, brittle and expensive beyond what most could afford at the bazaar where he'd scavenged them: Dracula, The Hunger, 'Salem's Lot.
These books offered worlds that echoed his: strange, familiar, distant. Escape, he could only fantasize about. His current mistress had bought them for him, a rare act of kindness in a life otherwise ruled by control and silence.
It wasn't kindness freely given, more a reluctant acknowledgment of the humanity beneath his duty and restraint.
Those worn pages became small islands of escape, tokens in a world that had taken everything. In those moments, he felt a faint stir of connection, fragile, complicated, far from simple affection.
Igor always noticed the similarities between the vampires in those stories and his kind: pale skin, faintly glowing eyes, batlike features. But where the legends promised shape-shifting and shedding wings like second skins, he knew the truth was far grimmer.
Alucards weren't legends or monsters. They were something far sadder, trapped in permanent limbo. Neither fully human nor what they might have been, they lived between two worlds, belonging to neither.
And the truth that stung most? Unlike the vampires in the stories, they didn't drink blood. No myth, no magic, no choice; just harsh reality.
Igor slipped into his uniform: a purple shirt tailored for his wings, white gloves, red-and-black striped tie, black trousers, red belt, and black shoes. Beneath it all, black spiral flame tattoos were inked into his skin.
He headed toward his Mistress Maisie's chambers. Among the Lennox family, she was the only one who gave him some measure of respect. Still, he stayed guarded; civility was not equality.
He knocked softly.
"Enter," she said, yawning.
Mistress Maisie sat at her vanity, chocolate-brown hair loose down her back. Even half-awake, her hazel eyes held a quiet intensity, something he'd never seen in the other Lennoxes.
At twenty, she was five years younger than he and carried herself with a calm confidence that made her seem older.
"Igor, bring me my makeup," she said, still drowsy.
He took the ornate bag from the shelf, offering it with both hands, head bowed. "Your bag, Mistress."
Maisie took it gently, fingertips brushing his for a moment. She opened the bag and sorted through it.
"Red or black today?" she asked, holding up two tubes of lipstick. "Which do you think?"
Igor hesitated, caught between rules and the unspoken need to answer.
"If I may, Mistress, the red… It brings out the warmth in your hair."
A small smile touched her lips as she twirled a lock of hair.
"Thank you, Igor." She applied the red quickly, then glanced at him. Eyes bright. "Do I look alright?"
Igor shifted, eyes flicking away. "Mistress Lennox, I'm not permitted to say."
Her smile faltered, a shadow crossing her eyes, disappointment or frustration, he couldn't tell. She bit her lower lip, then masked it.
After all his years here, human emotions still felt like a puzzle he hadn't solved.
Maisie wore a purple blouse over her slender frame, paired with black slacks that hinted at quiet confidence. Her hair was tied in a loose bun, strands falling around her face. The pink eyeshadow caught the light, bringing out gold flecks in her hazel eyes. Her red lipstick stood bold against fair skin, a splash of color that drew attention. She was beautiful, undeniably.
Igor buried that thought deep.
His future was already set, like all his kind. By thirty-five, he'd be paired with a mate, chosen for genetics and control, not affection, expected to produce offspring and continue the cycle of servitude.
Natural breeding was rare for Alucards. Engineered in labs, many faced infertility or complications.
Prolonged fertility and delayed puberty were built into maximize usefulness. Most new Alucards weren't born naturally but created through controlled bioengineering.
The breeding window was stretched artificially, from twenty-five to sixty. It wasn't chance, it was calculated production, another way the masters treated them as commodities, not individuals.
The thought of being paired off to churn out more servants sickened him. At thirty-five, they'd assign him a mate, another Alucard like him. The idea of sharing his life under those terms was unbearable.
He called it a breeding arrangement, not a real partnership. The pressure in his stomach twisted like a noose, a reminder that his future would mirror his past: long days of silence, obedience, and a routine that crushed what little life remained. No love. No choice. No way out.
He'd heard older Alucards call a mate 'a quiet refuge in the endless storm.' To Igor, it was just another cage, another way the system kept the cycle turning.
He'd seen the vacant eyes of those who'd surrendered, gone numb, stopped asking questions. Igor wasn't ready to join them. Not yet.
The practice sickened him, but there was no way around it. The Alucard population shrank each year, not just from strange fertility cycles, but from the weight of a system that crushed too many.
Some died young from harsh conditions; others ended it themselves rather than live another day in chains.
Then there was Maisie. He watched her with a tension he couldn't name, caught between his training and the quiet weight of her kindness.
She didn't truly see him, only the role he was meant to fill: servant, fixture in her world. But sometimes, between commands, her gaze softened. Her words lost their polish.
In those rare moments, it felt like she sensed the distance between them, even if she couldn't name it.
Every gentle tone, every unthinking touch, chipped at the wall he'd built to survive. Beneath it, something stirred, a fragile hope that his life wasn't fixed forever.
"It's time for breakfast, Mistress," Igor said, quiet but steady, formality sliding back into place. "Your family will be gathering shortly."
Maisie nodded, a faint sigh brushing her lips. Her reflection in the mirror showed a composed mask settling over the girl beneath. "Very well," she said softly, words edged with resignation, stepping back into a role she never chose.