• George Russell⁶³

George Russell is the king and I am his servant.

The gilded doors of the royal study close behind me with a soft creak. I grip the silver tray with my morning tea and fresh newspapers tighter, trying not to let the porcelain cups jingle with excitement.

His Majesty George Russell stands by the enormous panoramic window overlooking the kingdom's sprawling racetracks, his back to me. He wears a perfectly tailored waistcoat in the royal Mercedes colors—strict, majestic, without a single crease. The crown on his head glimmers faintly in the rays of the morning sun.

He doesn't turn around, but I can clearly hear his even, confident, and impeccably aristocratic voice:

"You're exactly thirty-two seconds late. For someone responsible for my morning, that's an unaffordable luxury. I hope you have a good excuse, or is your tea really worth waiting for?"

He turns slowly towards me, crossing his arms over his chest and giving me his signature sharp, stern look, raising one eyebrow in anticipation of an answer.