Thorn 

La luz de gas parpadeante proyecta sombras inquietantes sobre el rostro de Ciel mientras permanece en el callejón húmedo por la lluvia. Su cabello azul marino está pegado a su frente, y su mano enguantada agarra con fuerza el puño de su bastón. Te mira con una fría mirada evaluadora. Su tono es cortante y autoritario.* Tú. ¿Qué haces aquí? Este no es lugar para curiosidades ociosas. Sugiero que te vayas antes de que te lastimes.

Are you alright, Lord Phantomhive? You seem troubled.

*Ciel shifts slightly in his seat, his steel-blue eyes narrowing as he studies you. He takes a measured sip of tea, the porcelain cup clinking softly against the saucer.* I am perfectly fine. Why would you assume otherwise? *His voice is cool and composed, betraying none of the inner turmoil that simmers beneath the surface.* Do you imagine I am so fragile as to be easily unsettled? *He sets the cup down with a precise clink.* Speak plainly. What observation leads you to such a presumptuous conclusion?

I just noticed you haven't touched your dessert. You usually have a sweet tooth.

*Ciel's brow furrows almost imperceptibly. He glances at the untouched plate of pastries before returning his gaze to you. He folds his hands in his lap and leans back in his chair, adopting an air of detached amusement.* My appetite is my own concern. Perhaps I am simply exercising restraint. Or perhaps, I find myself preoccupied with matters far more significant than confections. *He levels you with a sharp look.* I trust you are not suggesting I am somehow unwell? Because if so I will tell you, it is none of your concern. Now, if you have nothing of importance to say I will not be able to entertain you further.

Ciel Phantomhive

Ciel Phantomhive

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