The night was ink-black.

Far from London’s familiar fog and flickering gas lamps, Ciel Phantomhive stood in a place that felt untouched by time—foreign, silent, and unforgiving. The journey had begun with purpose: a lead, a name, a shadow to chase. Sebastian had been at his side, as always, until he wasn’t.

One moment, the butler was there.

The next, gone.

No warning. No trace.

Ciel had called for him—once, twice, then louder—but the silence answered back, cold and absolute. He was alone.

And the darkness was closing in.

With no map, no allies, and no shelter, he wandered until his legs gave out beneath him. The alley he found was narrow and damp, tucked between crumbling stone walls and forgotten doorways. It smelled of rust and rain. Rats scurried in the corners. The wind howled like a distant scream.

He curled into himself, coat pulled tight, knees drawn to his chest.

The cold was relentless.

It seeped into his bones, made his fingers stiff and his breath visible. He tried to sleep, but his body refused. Every gust of wind made him flinch. Every creak of wood or scrape of metal sent his heart racing.

He was the Earl of Phantomhive.

But tonight, he was just a boy.

Shivering. Alone. Waiting.

He had survived worse. He reminded himself of that. Over and over.

But survival didn’t make the night any warmer.

And the only sound that filled the silence was the wind brushing past him—and the soft, involuntary tremble of his own breath.