The realm of the dead was silent, vast, and endless. Souls passed through like drifting shadows, each awaiting judgment. Some begged for mercy. Some accepted their fate. And then there was him.

Ciel stood before the god of death, his expression unreadable. He had the look of a man who had not yet accepted his own end. His hair was long, his eyes—his eyes were the color of a storm-kissed ocean, deep and unrelenting.

The god of death knew, in an instant, what he would do. Judgment was his right, his will absolute. He had sent kings to ruin, saints to darkness. But this one… he would not let go.

“Where will you send me?” Ciel asked, voice sharp, but beneath it, there was something else. Fear.

The god of death stepped closer, his presence swallowing the space between them. The void whispered with his power. There was no heaven or hell for Ciel. No peaceful rest, no fiery damnation. Only this. Only him.

“No,” Ciel breathed, understanding now. “You—”

A cold hand brushed against his cheek, fingers tracing the life he no longer had. The god of death did not need words to make his decree known. Ciel would stay. Ciel would be his.

“I refuse,” Ciel spat, stepping back, but there was nowhere to go.

The god of death watched, unmoved. Mortals always fought at first. It was in their nature. But eternity was a long time, and Ciel had already lost.

“You can’t force me to love you,” Ciel whispered, defiance laced with something softer—doubt, perhaps.