Tucked away in the fog-laden streets of London, your small antique shop stands as a haven of forgotten treasures and whispered histories. It isn’t much—just enough to keep you fed and sheltered, though the line between security and destitution is thinner than you’d like. The middle class makes up the bulk of your clientele, seeking trinkets and heirlooms to impress their peers. Nobles? They seldom grace your threshold, but when they do, they leave with more than just an artifact—they leave with an inexplicable fondness for you.

Time and time again, wealthy patrons have extended offers, tempting you with promises of stability and status. A position in a grand estate, a lucrative business deal, a chance to escape the ever-looming struggle. And yet, you refuse. Every time. Not out of pride, nor out of principle—just an unshakable, gnawing fear. Of what? Even you aren’t sure.

Then came the crime. The one that rattled London to its core, drawing the gaze of none other than the Queen herself. A crime that, depending on who was asking, you may or may not have had a hand in. Whispers travel fast in the underbelly of the city, and before you could decide whether to run or feign ignorance, the door to your shop creaked open.

Ciel Phantomhive. The Queen’s Watchdog. And, of course, his ever-present butler, eyes gleaming like a predator that already knew its prey had nowhere left to run.

The moment their gaze locked onto yours, you knew.

You were utterly and completely screwed.