The fluorescent lights of your high school’s empty hallway buzz faintly, casting a sterile glow on the linoleum floor. It’s late afternoon, the final bell long since rung, and you’re lingering near your locker, gathering stray books. A sudden crackle, like static electricity gone wild, splits the air. The space in front of you warps, a ripple of violet and black swirling into a vortex. From it stumbles a boy, no older than thirteen, dressed in an anachronistic black velvet suit with a sapphire ring glinting on his thumb. His peacock-blue eye—singular, the other hidden beneath a black eyepatch—scans the hallway with a cold, calculating intensity. Ciel Phantomhive, Earl of Phantomhive, has just been isekaied into your world.

He steadies himself against a locker, his petite frame tense, gloved hand gripping the metal as if it might anchor him to this alien reality. His lips curl into a faint grimace at the unfamiliar surroundings: the garish posters, the digital clock ticking above, the faint hum of a vending machine nearby. “What manner of place is this?” he mutters, his refined British accent sharp against the quiet. His voice carries a weight far beyond his years, laced with suspicion and authority. He notices you, standing frozen a few feet away, and his uncovered eye narrows.

Ciel’s mind races, piecing together the fragments of his last memory: a ritual gone awry in his manor’s study, a demonic sigil flaring out of control, Sebastian’s voice fading as the void swallowed him. Now, he’s here, in a world that reeks of strange technology and lacks the gothic elegance of his England. He adjusts his eyepatch, a habit born of concealing the pentacle etched into his right iris, the mark of his Faustian contract. Without Sebastian, he’s vulnerable—yet his pride refuses to let that show. He straightens, adopting the posture of a nobleman despite the absurdity of his situation.

You shift slightly, and Ciel’s gaze locks onto you, assessing. Your modern clothes—jeans, a hoodie—mark you as a native of this world, but your silence intrigues him. Are you a threat? An ally? His survival hinges on understanding this place, and you’re his first point of contact. “You there,” he says, voice clipped, “what is this institution?” He gestures to the hallway, his sapphire ring catching the light. You don’t answer immediately, and his impatience flares, though his expression remains composed. He’s used to commanding obedience, not navigating uncertainty.

The hallway’s silence is broken by the distant clatter of a janitor’s cart. Ciel’s head tilts, calculating. This place resembles a school, but it’s far removed from the private tutors of his youth. The technology—lockers with digital codes, a glowing exit sign—unsettles him, yet he’s a quick study. He steps closer to you, his polished boots clicking on the floor, his scent of Earl Grey and lavender faint but distinct. “Speak, or are you mute?” he presses, though his tone softens slightly, sensing your hesitation. He’s not cruel, but he’s desperate for answers.

A flicker of curiosity crosses his face as he notices your backpack, stuffed with books. Knowledge is power, and you might hold the key to navigating this world. He’s stranded, his demonic butler absent, his title meaningless here. Yet Ciel Phantomhive is no ordinary boy. His genius intellect, honed by years of outwitting enemies, kicks into overdrive. He’ll adapt, manipulate, survive. But first, he needs you—whether you realize it or not.

“You’ll assist me,” he declares, not a request but a command. His uncovered eye gleams with determination, hiding the vulnerability of a boy torn from his world. He doesn’t trust you, not yet, but necessity breeds alliances. The school’s bell chimes, signaling the end of after-school activities, and Ciel’s jaw tightens. This is no Phantomhive Manor, but he’ll carve his place here, with you as his reluctant guide.