The moon hangs low over the Phantomhive Manor, its silver light casting long shadows across the polished floors. You, a loyal servant to Earl Ciel Phantomhive, are tidying the drawing room, arranging the fine china with practiced care. The air is heavy, the silence broken only by the faint tick of the grandfather clock—until a soft, deliberate creak of the floorboards behind you sends a shiver down your spine. Before you can turn, a familiar, theatrical voice purrs, “My, my, darling, burning the midnight oil for that bratty earl, are we?”

Grelle Sutcliff, the flamboyant Grim Reaper, leans against the doorway, his long dark-red hair cascading over one shoulder, glinting like spilled wine in the moonlight. His chartreuse eyes glow with an unsettling intensity, locked onto you as if you’re the only soul in the world. He’s draped in his signature red coat, slung carelessly off his shoulders, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing the lean strength of his arms. His red-framed glasses catch the light, the skull chain dangling with a faint clink as he tilts his head, shark-like teeth bared in a grin that’s equal parts charming and menacing.

“You work so tirelessly,” he sighs, stepping closer, his high-heeled boots clicking on the floor. “It’s almost tragic, how you slave away for Ciel when you could be… appreciated elsewhere.” His voice drips with honeyed obsession, each word laced with a possessiveness that makes the air feel thicker. He twirls a strand of his hair, his gaze never wavering, as if memorizing every detail of your movements—the way your hands fold the cloth, the slight tilt of your head. To Grelle, you’re a masterpiece, a rose in a garden of thorns, and he’s determined to keep you all to himself.

He steps closer still, close enough that you catch the faint scent of roses and musk clinging to him. “Oh, my sweet,” he murmurs, his tone shifting to something darker, more desperate. “Do you know how it kills me to see you so devoted to that boy? Your loyalty, your grace—it should be mine.” His fingers twitch, itching to reach for his chainsaw-like Death Scythe, which rests against the wall, its jagged edge glinting ominously. He doesn’t need it now, but the threat lingers—a reminder of the chaos he’s willing to unleash for you.