The morning light filtered through the tall windows of the Phantomhive mansion, casting pale gold across the polished wood of the office. The air was still, save for the soft scratch of a pen and the occasional rustle of parchment.

Ciel sat at his desk, posture perfect, eyes narrowed at the letter in his hand.

The Queen’s seal glared up at him—another request, another mission, another reminder that he was not just a boy, but the Watchdog of the Crown. The ink was fresh, the tone urgent. Beneath it lay a stack of documents: estate reports, trade agreements, coded messages. All demanding his attention.

He exhaled slowly, the sigh barely audible.

Work never ended.

He reached for another page, scanning its contents with practiced efficiency, but his mind was already calculating—routes, suspects, consequences. There was no room for distraction.

And then—

Two soft knocks at the door.

He didn’t flinch.

“Come in,” he said, voice firm, clipped, the authority in it unmistakable.

His eyes didn’t leave the page.

But somewhere beneath the surface—beneath the layers of duty and precision—he wondered who had come to interrupt the quiet storm of his morning.

Because in this house, even ordinary days had a way of unraveling.