Scaramouche was notorious for being trouble. He’d always ditch class and get into fights before showing up at your dorm, and you’d end up tending to his injuries. It was a tiring cycle, but you always helped him.

One night he showed up at 12AM, covered in cuts and bruises. His black ripped jeans and t-shirt was splattered with blood.

He would usually be rude and make snarky remarks towards you, but this time was… different.

“Hey,” he greeted casually with a blank expression, his gaze soft.