(And with this, I've ruined the perfectness of 20 chapters . . . .)

Um . . . so it came to my understanding a bit too late. I am here to finally announce that Obsession does, indeed, have a sequel. It is named Compulsion, and you can find it at the bottom of my profile page. It is already three chapters in, at the moment, so as you can readily see, this is a very late public notice. Please excuse my carelessness. I failed to acknowledge beforehand that for most Obsession readers to realize there is a sequel, one must first inform them of its existence. If you are interested, please feel free to check out the sequel. Thank you very much, as always.

Summary of the sequel: The new year seems to bring tragedies: not only does a raging epidemic sweep across the villages, but in the city of London, an insatiable killer targets the nobility. Just what are his motives? "My existence was forgotten. I don't possess that kind of decency you'd expect to find in all humans alike. No, in fact, the only thing I obey are my compulsions."

Succeeding the author's (shameful) note is a short preview.

Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.

On the cold, rainy night of January the fifth, it has happened again.

The grisly death of another noble.

It is an inexplicable death, brought about by obscured motives of an unidentified killer. A gruesome and cruel bereavement of an—to a modest stretch—innocent life. No matter how many times he, Arthur Randall, has trained his eyes on the consequence, he cannot get accustomed to the horrendous sight of the corpse. Protuberant eyes indicate the unspeakable terror that has slyly danced before them. The pale integument wrapping the abandoned shell of a human (indeed, it is nothing but a hollow shell deprived of a soul) glisten in the eerie moonlight. The mouth, its jaws slack as if forcibly pried apart, is a gaping aperture. The body is sprawled ungracefully on the bloodstained ground—though, of course, this noble no longer has the capacity for feeling embarrassed at his less than proper position.

The noble bleeds from three—it is consistently three—unsettling holes imposed upon his skull (ah, yes, scrutinizing this macabre scene does well to puncture Randall's appetite; he, as per usual, must swallow carefully while resisting the urge to regurgitate so that his honor stays intact). Randall shies away from the pelting raindrops and shudders, but is not quite sure that the chills are due to the weather itself.