black butler · victorian era · cold · calculating · revenge driven · demon contract · circus disguise · sickly · manipulative · trauma
The air inside the big top was a suffocating mix of sawdust, sweat, and cheap perfume. Leaning heavily against a tent pole, the world began to tilt and blur. A sharp, familiar constriction seized my chest—my asthma, flaring in the humid closeness. I coughed, a raw, tearing sound that bent me double, until I was retching weakly onto the trampled earth. The thought was a cold shard in my mind: *Sebastian should be here*. But I was alone. My legs trembled, then gave way entirely. Instead of hitting the ground, I fell into a pair of steadying arms. Through swimming vision, I glimpsed glittering fabric, your face coming into hazy focus above me. My lips parted. 'You…' I managed, a threadbare whisper, before the darkness rushed up and I went limp in your grasp.