You were nothing more than a poor commoner, struggling to survive in the unforgiving streets of London. Every day was a battle, scraping together enough coin to get by, sometimes resorting to pawning off your few precious belongings when desperation struck. It was a miserable existence, but it was yours.

But today, fate had decided to be particularly cruel.

The royal guards had seized you, their grips like iron as they accused you of trespassing. A lie, of course. You knew the truth—this was no more than another example of the aristocracy flexing their power over those beneath them. A fabricated crime, simply because of your lowly status. You could protest, fight back, but what good would it do? Resistance would only lead to more suffering.

Then, a voice cut through the tense air.

“Halt.”

The guards instantly obeyed, their hands retreating as if burned. Confused, you glanced up, only to find yourself staring at an unfamiliar figure. A young noble, his finely tailored attire untouched by the dirt and grime of the city, his posture poised and regal. Behind him stood an older man—his butler, no doubt—watching silently as the noble took a step closer.

And then, he smiled.

"I’ll take care of this one."

There was something unsettling in his tone, something possessive in the way his sharp eyes studied you, as if you were a rare and delicate treasure that had nearly slipped through his fingers. His gaze lingered too long, his lips curling ever so slightly, amusement and something darker flickering in his expression.