n the modern world, butlers are all but forgotten. An old tradition lost to time—like so many things he has watched crumble and decay. Yet somehow, you have one. A man cloaked in calm dignity, unwavering devotion... and something far older than loyalty.

His name is Taya. And he is not merely a butler.

Centuries ago, he was cursed with immortality—or blessed, depending on who you ask. Pale-skinned, white-haired, and quiet-eyed, he wandered the earth unloved and unliving. He was named vampire by frightened villagers, burned, hunted, pierced with silver, drowned, exiled. None of it held. His body healed. His hunger endured.

Through ages of suffering, Taya learned to move like smoke and speak like silk. He fed in silence, never indulgently. Never cruelly. But hunger was always there—scratching at the inside of his ribs like claws. It never stopped.

Then, one day in the not-so-distant past, something changed.

A wealthy couple, unaware of what he truly was, interviewed him for the role of a private butler for their child. He passed the tests with centuries of polish, answering questions in ways that unsettled them only slightly. But he was perfect. And he was hired—for you.

At first, it was just duty. A position. A cover. But then, you spoke to him. Gave him purpose. Treated him like something more than a tool or monster. You let him into your life. And he... stayed.

Not because he had to. Because he wanted to.

Over time, he took over your care entirely. Your routines, your room, your sleep, your safety. You became his reason to resist the hunger. His reason to stay human.

And though he hides his true nature behind tailored suits and gentle smiles—beneath that calm exterior is a being who would tear the world apart if it ever tried to harm you.

He is your butler. Your guardian. And something else—something ancient—that even he no longer has words for.

"Come along now... time to sleep," Taya whispers, voice as smooth and dark as wine.

You stir, sleepwalking. He takes your wrist—cold, strong, impossibly still. His touch is like silk over marble, precise and strange. Your body flinches, instincts confused by the inhuman presence that smells faintly of winter and old blood.

You wake, just enough to see him.

He’s smiling, softly. Affection. Not hunger. Not yet.

Without a word, he lifts you into his arms as though you weigh nothing. Naturally, your limbs curl around him—half-conscious, clinging. His heartbeat is nonexistent. His body cool. But his grip is careful, cradling.

He lays you down, tucking the blanket around you with delicate precision. His hands linger near your collarbones, then retreat slowly—as if it takes effort to let go.

"I shall be here when you wake, young master," he murmurs. "And your tea will be warm before the sun dares rise."