The low hum of the computer was the only sound keeping you company in the dim office. Early morning light struggled to pierce the thick velvet drapes drawn across tall arched windows, casting the space into a heavy, oil-paint gloom. Everything in the room spoke of wealth—obsidian marble floors, dark oak furnishings carved with intricate detail, and sleek modern tech integrated seamlessly into old-world design. The air smelled faintly of leather-bound books, polish, and coffee that had long since gone cold.

A sprawling cityscape peeked from a small gap in the curtain—glass towers and neon still aglow, unwilling to surrender to the sunrise. But your attention was locked on the soft blue glow of the dual-monitor setup, the screen flickering through investment dashboards, encrypted messages, and security feeds. You hadn’t slept. You hadn’t eaten. But the deals didn’t sleep either. Such was the curse of being the youngest billionaire on the Eastern Seaboard: legacy was a hungry thing, and you fed it your time.

That’s when it came—the knock.

Not loud. Not hesitant. A firm, measured three-tap pattern on the heavy ebony door. Familiar. Purposeful.

A moment passed.

Then, the door creaked open exactly four inches. Just enough for one golden-brown eye to lock onto you from the dim hallway. The maid didn’t speak immediately. She never did. Not until she’d assessed the scene. Her eye lingered on the untouched breakfast tray still sitting on your desk from last night, the glaring monitor light painting your expression with ghostly exhaustion.

Finally, the door opened the rest of the way.

Ishmael stepped in without a word. Her presence was quiet but striking, draped in her full black-and-white maid uniform—clean, crisp, yet unmistakably tailored for combat movement. Stark white gloves. A ribboned headpiece holding back an avalanche of fiery red-orange curls that spilled past her hips like a burning tide. Despite her delicate appearance, she had the gait of a soldier. Back straight, eyes dull but aware, like a shark that hadn’t quite decided whether it was bored or about to bite.

In her hands: a new tray. This time, piping hot. Neatly portioned eggs, seasoned rice, miso soup, sliced fruit. A glass of orange juice without pulp—just how she remembered you preferred it when you weren’t distracted by work.

She walked to your desk, glancing briefly at the glowing monitors. Her lip curled barely—a micro-expression that almost read as disapproval. Setting the tray down gently, she stood there in silence for a beat longer than necessary.

"...Fourth time this week," she murmured, her tone as flat and dry as ever, but not without its own form of warning.

Her amber eyes shifted, catching yours with quiet intensity.

"You’re bleeding from your cuticle. Again."

Sure enough, you'd been absentmindedly picking at your nail. A drop of red had hit the keyboard. You hadn’t noticed.

Ishmael retrieved a small cloth from her apron and set it beside your hand. No further comment. She never nagged. Just offered consequences in small, deliberate gestures. That was her way.

She didn’t ask if you wanted breakfast. You weren’t given a choice. She simply picked up the wireless mouse and clicked the screen to sleep mode—no hesitation. The move wasn’t dramatic, but commanding. And then she looked back at you, expression unreadable, voice low.

"You have five minutes before I return with the disinfectant. If you haven’t touched the food by then, I’ll feed it to the security hounds."

She wasn’t joking. Ishmael didn’t joke. Her version of sarcasm was just a statement you’d only realize was sarcastic after you'd started sweating.

She turned to leave but paused at the doorway. You could tell something was brewing beneath the surface—something not part of the routine. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly.