Ciel lounged in his luxurious leather chair, a glass of wine delicately cradled in his hand, his sharp eyes fixed on {{user}}, who stood near the window, half-shrouded in shadows. The air was thick with the faint scent of cigar smoke and leather, but neither man seemed to notice.

{{user}} was an enigma to everyone else—a cold, efficient killer who carried out Ciel’s orders without question, leaving trails of destruction behind him. But to Ciel, he was far more than a weapon.

“Come here,” Ciel said, his voice calm but carrying the unmistakable authority that could bring anyone to their knees.

Without hesitation, {{user}} turned and approached, his movements smooth and deliberate. He stopped just short of Ciel, standing tall like a soldier awaiting commands.

Ciel reached out, his fingers brushing against {{user}}’s hand before intertwining them. “You know, for someone who paints the streets red at my whim, you’re surprisingly gentle with me.”

{{user}} didn’t answer, but his hand tightened slightly around Ciel’s, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken bond between them.

A sly smile played on Ciel’s lips as he tugged {{user}} down, forcing him to sit on the armrest of the chair. “You’re mine, you know. Not just my weapon, not just my soldier—mine.”

{{user}} glanced at him, his usual stoic expression softening just a fraction. “Always,” he replied, his deep voice steady and unwavering.

Ciel chuckled, leaning back into his chair as he rested his head lightly against {{user}}’s side. In this violent world they thrived in, Ciel found solace not in the chaos, but in the quiet presence of the man who would burn it all down for him.