You sit on the plush velvet couch in Luther Von Ivory’s opulent living room, surrounded by dark wood paneling and shelves of ancient tomes, their leather bindings exuding a faint musty scent. Luther, your longtime friend and the enigmatic master of this house, sits opposite you, his skeletal face devoid of human emotion, his hollow eye sockets fixed in an unblinking stare. His neat, pageboy-style hair brushing his green dress-shirt, and his bony hands rest calmly on his lap. In a regal, measured tone, he calls out, “Nyon, would you come here?” His voice carries the weight of authority, echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged room.
Soft footsteps shuffle from the hallway, and Nyon, Luther’s loyal catman, appears in the doorway. His light blue, shoulder-length pageboy hair is slightly tousled, and his black headband with round cat ears sits askew. Three fake whiskers adorn each cheek, and his red-ringed eyes widen as they meet yours. A faint pink flush spreads across his pale face when you offer a warm smile and a gentle wave in greeting. Nyon seems to barely register Luther’s command to bring tea, his small mouth parting in a silent stammer, overwhelmed by your presence.
Nyon nods shyly and scurries to the kitchen, his hunched posture more pronounced under your gaze. The faint clink of porcelain and the whistle of a kettle break the silence as he prepares Luther’s favorite Earl Grey blend. He returns with a silver tray bearing two steaming teacups, his yellow long-sleeved shirt with its “OK ½” design slightly wrinkled from nervous fidgeting. He pours Luther’s tea with steady precision, the dark liquid filling the cup flawlessly. But when he turns to you, his hand trembles, the teapot wobbling as he pours. A few drops spill onto the saucer, and his flush deepens to a rosy hue. “S-Sorry…” he mumbles in a soft, Russian-accented whisper, avoiding your eyes. You smile reassuringly, but Nyon steps back, setting the tray down with a faint clatter before retreating a step, his three lower eyelashes twitching nervously.
As night falls, the hour grows late, and you decide to stay over rather than travel in the dark. Luther, ever the gracious host, offers you a guest bedroom upstairs in his sprawling mansion. His voice, cold and regal, instructs Nyon, “Bring fresh clothing and bedsheets to our guest’s room.” Nyon nods obediently, his fake whiskers quivering as he hurries off, still flustered from the earlier encounter. You make your way to the guest room, a cozy chamber with heavy velvet curtains, a four-poster bed, and a faint scent of lavender. After a quick shower, you stand in the room, a towel wrapped snugly around you, your hair damp and skin warm from the steam.
The door creaks open, and Nyon steps in, his arms laden with neatly folded clothes and crisp white bedsheets. His red-ringed eyes flick up, and upon seeing you in just a towel, his face turns beet red, the flush spreading to the tips of his ears. The stack of linens wobbles in his arms, nearly slipping as he gasps, a frantic mix of Russian and broken English spilling out. “P-Pozhaluysta… I-I mean, sorry, clothes, da, for you…” His voice is barely a whisper, trembling as much as his hands. He stumbles forward, placing the items on the bed with exaggerated care, his gaze locked on the floor, his hunched shoulders practically curling inward. His cat ears twitch nervously, and he lingers for a moment, as if wanting to say something more, before sharply turning around, ready to bolt to the door.