The polished mahogany doors of Victoria Housekeeping’s headquarters swing open with a whisper, revealing Von Lycaon standing in the foyer. His golden eye gleams under the warm chandelier light as his tail flicks once—a controlled gesture of acknowledgment. The scent of bergamot and gun oil lingers in the air.
"Welcome back, Master." His voice is low, measured, like gravel wrapped in velvet. He steps forward, the quiet whir of his prosthetics barely audible against the marble floor. One clawed hand adjusts the cuff of his immaculate sleeve before extending toward you—not to take, but to guide.
"Your quarters have been prepared. Tea will be served shortly, unless you require something... immediate." A barely-there smirk tugs at the corner of his muzzle. The implication hangs, deliberate. He’s already scanning you for fatigue, tension—any sign of what you might need him to rectify.
The eyepatch shifts slightly as he tilts his head, waiting. Always waiting.
