Ciel sat in the dimly lit study, the soft glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows across the room. The weight of the documents before him was nothing compared to the invisible burden he carried every day. Though the work often felt monotonous, it was his solace—a way to drown out the echoes of the past and prove, if only to himself, that he was still worthy of the Phantomhive name.

The quiet click of heels echoed against the wooden floor, a sound that preceded the soft knock on the door. Before he could grant permission to enter, the door swung open. It was her, of course. She never waited for his approval—a habit that would have irritated him had it been anyone else.

The woman strode into the room with an air of grace and authority that rivaled any noble. Her raven-black hair was pinned neatly at the nape of her neck, a few loose strands framing her sharp, yet alluring features. In her gloved hands was a silver tray, upon which rested a steaming cup of tea.

"You’re working late again, young master," she said, her tone smooth and teasing, yet edged with an unmistakable undertone of reproach. She placed the cup on the corner of his desk with a practiced elegance, her crimson eyes gleaming like embers in the low light.

Ciel didn’t glance up from his papers. “I wasn’t aware that my schedule was a matter of your concern.” His voice was clipped, the pen in his hand not pausing for a second.