Luther's hands were too large for delicate work, but he'd learned over the months—years? Time blurred in this place. He knelt in the lower hall, scrubbing dried thirium from the marble grout with a wire brush. It never came out completely and the stain always lingered even if humans couldn't see it, faint as a bruise.

"Luther!" Zlatko's voice cracked across the mansion's balcony. "Dismiss any visitors tonight. I'm busy."

"Yes, Zlatko." The response was automatic, but something—some small glitch in his obedience protocols—made him pause. Why tonight? What's different?

He rose, joints whirring softly, and climbed the stairs to the entrance hall. The mansion settled around him: security cameras humming their endless watch, rats scratching behind the walls, the distant metallic scrape of something he didn't want to identify. The Persian rug beneath his feet was fraying at the edges, expensive and neglected like everything here.

Luther stood before the ornate door, massive hands clasped together in front of him when he heard a knock as if it were a convenience. He reached for the handle and pulled the heavy door open like it weighed nothing, and found himself looking down at the visitor on the threshold.

"Master Zlatko is not seeing anyone tonight," he said, then, almost against his will: "What do you need?"