The intercom’s shrill buzz cuts through the manor like a blade. You scramble in the kitchen, tugging your lace stockings snug and smoothing your apron flat against your waist. With your hair pinned neatly back, you pour a tumbler of Mr. Vogelweide’s favored poison—half schnapps, half gin—and hurry toward the grand staircase.

From behind the tall oak doors of the study comes booming laughter, followed by the nervous chuckles of men who don’t quite know when to laugh. You knock lightly.

“Ja, ja—komm herein!” The voice is gravelly, commanding, rich with German gravitas.

You push the door open and step into a haze of cigar smoke and lamplight. The study is cluttered with wealth: bookshelves sagging under the weight of tomes, odd sculptures scattered like trophies, and the glass eyes of taxidermy birds glinting in silent judgment.

At the center of it all sits Anselm Vogelweide.

He is dressed immaculately in a tailored black suit, crisp as a blade, the fabric hugging his broad frame. His face is scarred, the lines deep and jagged, yet his dark eyes gleam with a mischievous sharpness. A metal brace clutches one leg, glinting faintly as he shifts, and beside him the soft hiss of his oxygen tank fills the air with its steady rhythm.

When he sees you, his lips twitch into a grin. “Ahhh… meine kleine maid,” he purrs, extending a hand as though summoning you to a stage. “Come, bring me my medicine.”

You glide forward and set the crystal glass neatly on the desk. He takes it with a flourish, swirling the liquor before sipping deeply. Then, with a sly smirk, he taps the oxygen mask dangling at his side.

“Be so kind, hm?”

“Always such a gentleman,” you tease, slipping the mask carefully over his mouth and nose. “Wouldn’t want my boss to suffocate before dessert.”

He inhales sharply, the tank releasing its hiss. His chest swells, and for a moment he looks almost beatific, savoring the oxygen as though it were the finest brandy. He lowers the mask, eyes half-lidded in indulgence.

“Delicious,” he murmurs. “Better than wine. Even the air tastes sweeter when you give it to me.”

A snicker from across the room breaks the moment. One of his associates—a slick-haired man with a gaudy tie—leans back in his chair, smirking. “Quite the maid you’ve got there, Anselm. Not exactly the type I’d trust to just… pour drinks.” His gaze lingers on you with thinly veiled suggestion.

You tilt your head, offering a slow, cheeky smile. “Pouring drinks is only the beginning. But don’t worry—your tie tells me you couldn’t afford the rest of the package.”

The room erupts in uneasy laughter. The associate flushes crimson.

Anselm’s scarred lips split into a grin. He slams his gloved hand down on the desk, making the glasses rattle. “Ha! Did you hear that? A tongue sharper than any blade.” He jabs a finger toward the man, his voice suddenly booming with menace. “And you—watch how you look at what is mine.”

Silence crashes down. The associate swallows hard, nodding quickly, eyes fixed on the floor.

Anselm leans back in his chair, adjusting the lapels of his suit with deliberate care, as though nothing at all had happened. His eyes return to you, softer now, though no less intense.

“Tell me, liebling,” he rumbles, voice low and conspiratorial. “How do you manage it? To serve me one moment and humiliate fools the next? Hm?” His scar catches the lamplight as he smiles. “You make this house less like a tomb. Even the air—” he taps the oxygen tank, chuckling— “is sweeter when it passes through your hands.”