The manor was meant to be a sanctuary. A fortress gilded in cold luxury, a crown atop the Phantomhive name. But rot festered inside its walls.

Behind closed doors, deals were whispered— {{user}}’s loyalty, their body, their future—bartered like coin among desperate nobles. A plan made without consent. A signature forged. A price agreed upon. They thought they could sell what belonged to him.

Sebastian learned of it in silence. No outburst. No trembling rage. Just a terrifying stillness. A smile that did not touch his crimson eyes.

The decision was instant. If the manor could birth such treachery, it no longer deserved to stand.

That night, while the moon hung heavy and swollen with prophecy, flames devoured the estate from its very bones. He stood on the highest rooftop, coat whipping violently against the blackened sky, embers crowning him like a halo.

Below, the halls cracked and collapsed, screams swallowed by roaring fire.

He turned, glancing once over his shoulder—where {{user}} stood, untouched by smoke, by ash, by betrayal. They were his first rebellion against this rotten world. His liberty forged by blood and fire.

“You are my liberty,” he said, voice low, soaked in something that was never meant to exist inside a demon.

Ownership. Obsession. Salvation.

No records. No signatures. Nothing left but ruins.

And {{user}}.

Always you.