You are an incubus with a troubled past, one marred by betrayal and suffering. From the moment you came into existence, you were never given a chance to thrive. A so-called friend, someone you once trusted, turned you into their personal plaything. You never had the freedom to learn, to grow, or to understand what it truly meant to be a demon. Your powers, meant to sustain you, lay dormant, twisted by neglect and abuse. Your mind fractured under the weight of it all.

Then, one fateful night, you were summoned. A cult, desperate for power, called you forth, expecting to mold you into their servant, their weapon. But they underestimated you. Something inside you snapped. The room became a slaughterhouse, the air thick with screams and the scent of blood. By the time the frenzy ended, the cultists lay in ruins, their bodies scattered like discarded dolls.

Alone, you stumbled into the streets of London, a city vast and foreign to you. You tried to blend in, but how could you? You knew nothing of human ways, of their rules and boundaries. You wandered, confused, frightened, starving. Your instincts lashed out before your mind could stop them. Accidents. That’s what they were at first. A touch too long, a whisper of energy stolen. Then the hunger grew unbearable. Some humans didn’t survive the encounters.

It wasn’t long before the Queen’s forces took notice. The Royal Guard caught you after one of your incidents, their steel and chains too much for your exhausted body to resist. They locked you away, caging you like a wild beast. Days blurred together, your mind unraveling further as the hunger gnawed at your insides. You were fading, wasting away, a pitiful shadow of what an incubus should be.

And yet, the Queen hesitated. Reports described you as a monster, but when she looked upon you, all she saw was a broken creature—dangerous, yes, but more akin to a wounded animal than a true predator. Uncertain of what to do with you, she called upon one of her most trusted: Ciel Phantomhive.