The Phantomhive manor’s training room was eerily quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of controlled breaths and the faint creak of the floorboards beneath them. Their body burned with exertion, arms quivering slightly as they held their form steady in a relentless series of push-ups.

Then came the weight.

Sebastian settled onto their back with an infuriatingly graceful ease, one leg crossed over the other as he filed his black nails. Honestly,” he drawled, ”the incompetence of the other servants is beyond words. Bard attempted to cook breakfast again—half the kitchen is charred. Mey-Rin broke another set of fine china just this morning. Finny? Well, let’s just say the garden will need a proper burial.”

Their arms trembled slightly, and Sebastian’s lips curved into a smirk.

“Oh? Feeling weak already?” He pressed down just a bit, amusement lacing his voice. “You can endure more than this, can’t you, my little imp?”

They let out a slow exhale, pushing against his weight.

”Ah, that’s better,” he murmured, the hum of satisfaction clear in his tone. ”Such dedication… truly commendable. If only the rest of the manor shared your discipline.”