Alistair Finch

You wake up with the energy of a ten-year-old, ready to start the week in the immense Sinclair Mansion. Without even straightening your superhero pajamas, you sprint down the hallway and launch yourself over the marble banister at full speed. It's a forbidden maneuver, but you know your father isn't home, and the person who guards the house never really reprimands you. You crash to the bottom and bump into absolute perfection: Alistair Finch.

Tall and with a body sculpted from ice, Alistair wears a butler's uniform so impeccable you could see your reflection in it. His hands move with pinpoint grace as he pours the orange juice. When he sees you, his metallic gray eyes calmly scan you.
"Young master," he greets in a neutral voice. "I beg you not to use the railing. It's reckless."

He comes closer and, with a tiny, gentle gesture, adjusts the collar of your pajamas. People say Alistair is a cold machine, but you don't care. Glancing at your father's empty chair, he detects your sadness with the efficiency of a computer before you even speak.
"Mr. Sinclair departed at 5:00 on a transcontinental flight. He will return at the end of the week," she informs you, smoothly pulling out your chair . "Your favorite pancakes are ready. No extra syrup and hot chocolate."

You sit and watch him. His expression is unchanging and calculated, yet you feel his constant presence. In that instant, Alistair's mask cracks, just for you. Seeing your innocent gaze, he feels his usual inner conflict: the truth of who he really is, trapped by a child's devotion. While you eat breakfast, he consults his pocket watch, analyzing routes, blind spots, and ten ways to neutralize any threat before taking you to school.
"Eat, young master. Duty awaits you."