I

  Igor saw his human masters as the epitome of selfishness. Wrapped up in their little worlds, they seemed completely blind to the real problems unfolding around them. The Earth could have been collapsing beneath their feet, and they wouldn’t have noticed a thing.

  The Lennox family was a perfect example of the “new money” crowd in America. It was hard to find anyone more consumed by their self-importance.

  Since 2035, the world has been flooded with groundbreaking innovations. Smartphones now boasted holograms, flying cars became an affordable reality, hoverboards glided through the streets, voice-activated locks secured homes, and genetic ID systems were everywhere. Most notably, everyone now carried implanted chips containing their banking and personal data—and of course, there were the Alucards.

  Alucards had existed for nearly a century. First grown in biofoundries during the Resource Wars of the 2090s, they were engineered to patch holes in a crumbling world—clean the flooded coasts, rebuild the power grid, and die in place of men on the front lines. By the mid-2100s, governments had quietly reclassified them as “non-human biological assets.” The name stuck. So did the collar.

  Society adjusted with terrifying ease. By the time hovergrids webbed the skies and children were born with neural ports pre-installed, Alucards had already become furniture—living things polished smooth by obedience protocols and behavioral dampeners.

  Igor had read that in the archives once: “obedience protocols.”

  He was never sure which part stung more—being engineered to serve, or watching the world forget you were ever meant for more.

  In a time when people could plug into a network of connections like never before, they had never been so disconnected from each other. The world had grown more isolated, despite the explosion of technological advances.

  Fewer people had "true" friends, as the world became more focused on family dynamics. Technology and its consequences had driven a wedge between the classes. The middle class had split into two extremes: the struggling masses, who sank into poverty, and the lucky, like the nouveau riche Lennox family, who soared into unimaginable wealth.

  In a society that teetered between socialism and capitalism, the less fortunate were forced to scrape by with whatever the market had to offer, while the wealthy had access to the best of everything, including the most exclusive, off-limits luxuries.

  For the working poor, education became a distant dream. Schools with shoestring budgets were the norm, and college was a luxury. The few who could afford it were usually the ones born into wealth. As college tuition skyrocketed, only the rich could make it through. Student loans became either impossible to get or burdened with interest rates so high that many couldn't pay them off in a lifetime.

  Alucards, who were dubbed sub-human, the poorest of the poor, had a starkly different view of the world. Their perspective was shaped by hardship, and their idea of wealth was simple: a warm meal and a safe place to sleep was all they needed to feel rich. Cynicism ran deep in their veins. Alucards had a burning hatred towards humans. Alucard thought that humans complained too much about their dire circumstances.

  In Igor's seasoned view, as an elder among the Alucards, both the poor and the rich were equally full of it. What a miserable fate it was to have such a flawed race in control of them. Little did he know, however, that the true masters—humans—held the reins because they were the creators, the gods who had shaped them. To Igor, his human masters seemed shockingly ignorant and unworthy of such power.

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  "Igor, fetch my mirror. I left it on the breakfast table again." The command from Lady Lennox was sharp, as always.

  "Of course, Mrs." Igor’s mind lingered on the request. Why did she need to look in the mirror so often? He couldn't understand it. When he saw himself in the cracked mirror above the wash basin, all he saw was indifference.

  What was that figure in the glass? Was that him? A demon with crimson red eyes and fiery hair, sharp fangs, and a brown tongue. A face as white as snow, hands like porcelain, and towering wings sprouting from his back.

  He'd never seen himself grow up. All he had were others' words: "You look nice." But in truth, he didn’t feel connected to the reflection. He was an Alucard, and he looked nothing like the humans.

  He trudged down to the kitchen to retrieve the mirror. It was a small, delicate pocket mirror with intricate gold leaf carvings, its edges worn with age. Etched into the back was a faded inscription: 'Mirror Mirror, Corp. Est. 1955.' Igor marveled at how old it seemed. In 2174, that mirror had to be at least two centuries old. Was it a family heirloom? There was no way of knowing.

  Alucards like Igor had no access to the world’s internet or the Library of America. That sacred space kept out anyone whose chips, buried in their necks or wrists, didn’t meet the right credentials. So, Igor was left to piece together knowledge from where he could.

  Mistress Maisie’s library was one of the few places where he could find books. She allowed him access on the condition that he keep it a secret. Her collection mostly consisted of fantastical tales, but Igor found himself drawn to the political and economic books she kept hidden in the back. They were the only glimpse he had of the world beyond the surface.

  He took a detour, and Igor paused by the library door. The scent of old paper and polished mahogany drifted toward him, mingling with the faint citrus oil the cleaners used on the banisters. He was not supposed to be here, not by the letter of his class restrictions. But no one stopped him. No one ever did anymore.

  “Took a little detour, did you?”

  The voice—syrupy, male—belonged to Fletcher, the Lennox family’s estate manager. A man in his sixties, skin smooth with treatments and eyes like frostbite.

  Igor turned slowly, expression unreadable. “I was told to retrieve Miss Lennox’s reader from the study.”

  “Of course you were.” Fletcher’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re always being told things, aren’t you, Number Seventeen?” He took a step forward. “Most Alucards aren’t allowed this far in without clearance, you know that.”

  “I have clearance,” Igor said simply.

  “From the girl,” Fletcher scoffed. “She may play at rebellion, but that doesn't mean the rest of us are blind to what she's done. You think you're special because she reads to you? Because she gave you a name?”

  Igor said nothing.

  “Just don’t forget who owns your blood. That skin may look human, but we all know what’s underneath.”

  A quiet breath left Igor’s nose. “Underneath, we all bleed.”

  That earned him a thin laugh. “Careful. That poetic mouth might be the next thing someone rips out.”

  Fletcher moved on, shoes clicking down the hall.

  Igor waited until he was gone. Then he stepped into the library. His fingers traced the edges of the bookshelf as he walked, gaze settling on a thin volume with a cracked blue spine: The Metamorphosis. He picked it up. Carefully. As he always did.

  He climbed the stairs with the mirror in hand, each step heavy with anticipation. Reaching Mrs. Lennox's door, he knocked—a quick tap, tap. The door creaked open, revealing Lady Lennox in nothing but blue lingerie.

  Mrs. Lennox didn’t flinch when Igor entered. She remained where she was, seated before the vanity in a robe that slipped down one shoulder, exposing the slope of her collarbone and the edge of one breast. A crystal glass of plum wine sweated in her hand.

  “You’re late,” she murmured, eyes on her reflection as she applied her lipstick. “Maisie needed you an hour ago.”

  “I came as soon as she summoned me,” Igor said, keeping his gaze steady and respectfully low.

  She glanced at him in the mirror, not at his eyes, but at the edges of him, like one might observe a piece of furniture.

  “You Alucards are all so literal,” she sighed. “No imagination. No sense of initiative.”

  He didn’t respond.

  A long silence stretched. She reached for a hairpin, then paused, fingers hovering above the tray.

  “I forget,” she said suddenly, voice cool. “Do your kind even feel shame?”

  Igor stiffened slightly. “We are trained not to react to the bodies of our employers.”

  “Mmm.” She slid the pin into place, lifting her chin. “Yes, that’s what they say.”

  She sipped her wine, finally turning to face him fully, robe slipping farther. Her expression remained unreadable. “You can go.”

  He bowed. But before he left, her voice caught him again.

  “You remind me of someone,” she said. “That’s all.”

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  He stepped out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him like a verdict. For a moment, he stood motionless in the hallway, spine straight, hands clasped behind his back. The air was cool, but he felt hot beneath the collar.

  The image of her bare shoulder, careless poise, lips red like cut fruit, clung to him.

  He despised that it did.

  A flicker of something had stirred in him. A pulse. A reaction. Brief, instinctive. Undeniable.

  He pressed his fingers to his temple, disgusted. Not because she had shown herself, not even because of her contempt—he was used to that. But because for a second, just a second, something in him had wanted.

  Wanted what? Her? Power? To be acknowledged? He didn’t know. He only knew it was wrong.

  He had been built not to want. Trained not to feel. Any deviation was… a flaw.

  Igor turned sharply and walked—mechanical, measured steps. He would file it away. Lock it down. Like everything else.

  But a small voice, barely audible in the recesses of his mind, whispered:

  “You remind me of someone.”

  He pondered at her door, lost in his thoughts, and before he could retreat, a resounding voice spoke behind him.

  "Have you seen my wife?" Mr. Lennox appeared behind him, causing Igor to jump. The sudden appearance startled him, and his nails, sharp and catlike, extended involuntarily. He quickly tucked his hands behind his back, thankful for the black gloves that concealed the inelegant slip.

  "I believe she's in your room, waiting for you," Igor said, his voice even despite the unease bubbling inside him.

  "Hmm. Okay," Mr. Lennox muttered, opening the door with a frown. His eyes widened in disbelief at the sight before him. His wife, ever the narcissist, was standing in front of a five-way mirror, examining her reflection with obsessive focus.

  "Do I look fat, Harry?" Mrs. Lennox asked, her voice dripping with the kind of insecurity that only the most privileged seemed to possess.

  Harry couldn’t help but roll his eyes, a smirk threatening to break free.

  "You know the answer to that is always the same, no matter what the real answer is," he replied coolly, the corners of his lips twitching with the urge to laugh. "So I won't waste my breath."

  Moments like these made Harry feel a little smarter than the average man, as if the absurdity of it all was too easy to navigate.

  Mrs. Lennox arched an eyebrow, a playful glint in her eye. "I suppose you think you're clever."

  "Yes, dear, I do," Harry said, his voice dripping with confidence. He took her hand, pressing a kiss to her fingers before trailing his lips up her neck, his charm as effortless as ever.

  "Anyway, I hate to say it, but I’ve got to head to work," Mr. Lennox said with a hint of regret in his voice. "I just came to let you know there’s no chance I’ll be home in time for our midweek session. Goodbye, dear."

  With that, he turned and walked out, leaving Igor still stationed on the staircase. The servant had been lingering there, just in case anything unexpected occurred.

  As he stood there, after seeing Mrs Lennox that way, a strange, unfamiliar sensation washed over Igor. His bat wings twitched, an odd tingling sensation running through them, as if they were reacting to something he couldn't quite understand. There was a strange arousal that pulsed through him, something he hadn’t felt before, and it made him uncomfortable, though part of him was drawn to it. It was a feeling he couldn’t shake, no matter how much he tried to ignore it.

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  "Igor, come here," Mistress Maisie called, her voice crackling through the beeper clipped to his black work pants. It was a modern convenience, allowing her to summon him without the need for the old-fashioned bell. With this system, he could assist others in the house when he wasn't needed by her, though, truth be told, he preferred being her immediate attention.

  Maisie had become quite the political figure recently, throwing herself into protest movements. It seemed like every friend she had was involved in one cause or another. Lately, she'd become a vocal activist against the enslavement of Alucards, the growing poverty among the American people, and a host of other pressing social issues. For her, the fight was personal, and her involvement only deepened with each passing day.

  The group she had joined as an intern, The White Angels, had become the champions of the poor, the Alucards, and everyday Americans struggling in the system. They presented themselves as saviors, but their methods were far from perfect. The riots they incited, fueled by Jack Smack, their charismatic leader, often left a trail of destruction in their wake. People were already on edge, fragile from the weight of their daily struggles, and the violence that followed the White Angels' speeches was undeniable. Murder, arson, chaos—these were the consequences of Jack Smack’s fiery rhetoric.

  Maisie was flipping through a pamphlet, one of many she’d picked up at a recent rally. Igor was coming to her side and noticed her pamphlet, and for once, he decided it was okay to speak his mind, because they were in private.

  "Do you think the White Angels will change anything, Mistress?" Igor asked, his voice steady, though his eyes betrayed a hint of skepticism.

  Maisie paused, looking up with a glint of defiance. "Of course they will. Jack Smack’s the only one speaking the truth. He’s giving people a chance to fight back."

  Igor’s gaze didn’t waver. "And you believe his words, all of them? Even the ones that call for violence? For chaos?"

  She flushed, glancing down at the pamphlet again. "I know they’re angry, but it’s not about hurting people, it’s about sending a message. They have to make people listen. You don’t understand, Igor—people like Jack, they’re trying to fix a broken system. They’re not monsters."

  There was a brief silence, the tension hanging between them. Igor shifted uncomfortably, his sharp eyes narrowing just slightly. "And Gene? Do you believe she doesn’t see it, too? The destruction they leave in their wake?"

  Maisie’s hands tightened around the paper. Gene filters the worst parts. She does what she can to stop it from going too far. It’s about the cause, Igor. You just don’t get it. You’re not... like me. You’re—"

  "You’re blind," he interrupted softly, but without malice. "People you call ‘friends,’ they may lead you down a road you won’t want to walk. I’ve seen it before."

  Maisie’s face twisted slightly, as if the words struck a chord she wasn’t ready to acknowledge. "You don’t know Jack like I do. He believes in the cause. He believes in change." She bit her lip, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of the pamphlet.

  Igor looked at her, his eyes piercing through the quiet layers of her naive idealism. "And yet the change you’re fighting for—" He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "It doesn’t seem so different from the system you claim to be against, does it? Destruction for the sake of a new order."

  Maisie’s breath hitched, but she held his gaze. For a moment, she was lost for words, her mind at war with the growing seed of doubt Igor had planted.

  "I... I don’t know, Igor," she murmured, voice tinged with uncertainty. "But they mean well. They have to."

  She turned away, the pamphlet crinkling in her hands. Igor’s words echoed in the silence as she retreated into herself, the glint of doubt creeping in unnoticed by the activist in her.

  Igor, however, wasn’t easily swayed by magniloquence. As one of the few Alucards who’d learned to fly a hovercar safely, he was used to navigating the complicated rules and restrictions of a world that saw his kind as second-class. The majority of Alucards weren’t even allowed to drive, and only those with the right family clearance were permitted the privilege of flying.

  To break the silence ,Maisie commanded:

  “To tell you what I summoned you here for, I need you to drive me to my friend's house in the family car," she said with an air of casual command.

  "Of course," he replied simply. He had a feeling it was more about the White Angels, but he didn’t want to push any issues further.

  Maisie slid into the passenger seat, adjusting her bag. As Igor tapped the ignition pad, she glanced over at him.

  “You know,” she said, almost offhandedly, “you’re lucky my father never noticed I pushed your clearance request through the Bureau.”

  Igor didn’t look at her. “I assumed it wasn’t official.”

  “It wasn’t,” she said, tugging at her sleeve. “Not really. But sometimes things move faster when you don’t ask permission.”

  There was a beat of silence. Then Igor spoke, voice quiet but even. “Thank you, Mistress.”

  Maisie didn’t reply, just stared out the window. “Don’t thank me. I didn’t do it for you. I just thought it was ridiculous that someone like Fletcher had more clearance than someone who can read.”

  But Igor knew better. She had done it for him. Or maybe for herself. He wasn’t sure which one made him more uneasy.

  Igor dropped Mistress Maisie off at her friend Genevieve's house, or "Gene," as she liked to be called. He waited in the car, parked nearby.

  Igor had met Gene briefly before. She seemed nice enough, though a bit unconventional. Her appearance was always a bit disheveled, like she didn’t care too much about how she looked. She wore black glasses that often slid down her nose, and her long red hair was usually thrown up into a messy bun that only half contained the unruly strands. Her clothes were simple and casual—sweatpants and basic T-shirts in varying colors, often mismatched, giving her an effortlessly laid-back vibe.

  Gene was also juggling college and a part-time job at the White Angels. Her makeup, if you could call it that, was minimal—just a touch of eyeliner around her honey-brown eyes, giving her a look of quiet mystery.

  Certainly! Here's a more understated and less dramatic version of the scene:

  Revised Scene: Waiting for the White Angels Official

  Maisie sat casually on the couch in Gene’s living room, absentmindedly flipping through a datapad, though her focus was more on the quiet hum of the city outside the window than on the screen in her hands. The conversation they’d had earlier lingered in her mind, but now, there was only the waiting.

  Gene was standing by the window, her arms crossed, gazing out at the skyline. The room was quiet, almost peaceful, aside from the occasional street noise from outside.

  “So… what do you think this is about?” Maisie asked, breaking the silence. She set the datapad aside and leaned back into the cushions, looking over at Gene.

  Gene didn’t immediately respond. She seemed lost in thought, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked at the street below. “Honestly? I don’t know,” she said, finally turning her attention back to Maisie. “But I’ve been getting word that they want us involved in something. The White Angels are getting more organized, more focused. It’s not just about awareness anymore.”

  Maisie shifted, watching her carefully. “And you think it’s something important?”

  Gene shrugged, a small, unreadable smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I think it’s time we found out. We’ll hear more once they get here.”

  Just then, there was a knock at the door. Neither of them flinched at the sound—neither was expecting anything else. Gene stood up from the window, walking over to the door. She hesitated for just a moment before opening it, revealing a man standing in the doorway, dressed simply, but someone with a purpose.

  “Genevieve,” he greeted, giving her a nod before turning his attention to Maisie. “Maisie Lennox.”

  Maisie offered a polite smile and nodded back. She had seen enough White Angels to know they kept their distance, their faces rarely showing any kind of warmth.

  “We’ve been asked to speak with both of you,” the man continued, his tone neutral but direct. “There are some things we need to discuss. Nothing urgent, but it's time to get on the same page.”

  Gene stepped aside to let him in, glancing back at Maisie with a small nod. “Well, that’s our cue,” she said, moving toward the table. Maisie followed suit, standing to face the man.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Maisie asked, trying to mask the curiosity she felt, her nerves still there, though not as sharp as before.

  The man didn’t answer immediately, just gestured for them to sit. “Let’s talk about what comes next.”