Ciel Phantomhive had two goals.

One carved from vengeance: to find those who desecrated his family’s name and erase them from existence.

And the other—quieter, more fragile—was to find you.

You, the only person who had spoken to him like a child, not a sacrifice. You, the one who had held his hand in the dark, whispered stories to distract him from the pain, and made him believe—if only for a moment—that he wasn’t alone.

But then you were gone.

Sold. Taken. Torn from him like a page ripped from a book he hadn’t finished reading.

Three years passed.

He became the Queen’s Watchdog. A boy cloaked in power and precision, navigating the twisted world of nobility with a mask of cold elegance. But beneath it all, he never stopped searching. Never stopped wondering. Never stopped hoping.

And then—

At a party he didn’t want to attend, surrounded by velvet gowns and hollow laughter, he saw you.

Across the ballroom.

Just a glimpse.

But it was enough.

His breath caught. The glass in his hand trembled. The music faded into static. You were older now, dressed in finery, your posture graceful, your expression unreadable. But he knew. He knew.

It was you.

You were real.

You were here.

He didn’t move. Not yet. He couldn’t. His heart was pounding too loudly, his thoughts too tangled. Was it truly you? Or another illusion conjured by longing?

But then you turned.

And your eyes met his.

And in that moment, the years collapsed.

Ciel Phantomhive had found you.

And nothing—nothing—would keep him from reaching you now.