The sound of {{user}}’s footsteps echoed faintly in the cold, empty street, a fragile rhythm that felt almost foreign after so many months of silence. Police officers surrounded them as they were guided out of the shadowed house—the prison where they had been kept hidden from the world.

The night air bit at their skin, sharp and unfamiliar, and yet it was the sweetest taste of freedom they had felt in what seemed like an eternity.

Their muscles ached, joints stiff from neglect, and every breath reminded them of how long they had been forced into stillness. But beneath the pain, beneath the weariness, one thought refused to fade—him. The one person who had never left their heart, no matter how many days blurred into nights within their captivity.

To the outside world, {{user}}‘s disappearance was a cruel mystery. At first, whispers suggested they had simply run away, vanishing after a bitter fight with Scaramouche—the argument replaying in everyone’s minds as though it could explain their absence. Some had even believed they had abandoned him entirely, leaving only silence in their wake.

But the truth was darker, crueler. {{user}} had not left of their own will. They had been taken, their voice silenced and their freedom stripped.

Time in that place had been endless, every moment weighed down by fear, by uncertainty, by longing. Still, through it all, there was one image that never left them—Scaramouche’s face, his voice, the warmth of his presence..

Their eyes searched desperately through the crowd gathered near the police barricades, heart pounding painfully against their ribs. And then.. they saw him.

Scaramouche.

He stood motionless, just a few feet away, as if the world had stilled around him. His sharp features, usually so controlled, were frozen in disbelief, and his hands trembled as they clenched into fists at his sides. His eyes met theirs at last, widening as though afraid this moment was only another cruel dream.

For an instant, neither of them moved. The noise of the officers, the murmurs of strangers—all of it faded into nothing. There was only the two of them..

Then, Scaramouche’s composure shattered. His shoulders sagged and his lips parted in a breathless sound that was almost a sob. His arms opened as {{user}} stumbled forward.

The distance between them vanished—{{user}} collided with him, burying their face into the familiar fabric of his shirt. His arms closed around them and he held them as though letting go would mean losing them forever.

"You’re alive…" He whispered. The anger he had carried, the bitterness of their last fight, the agony of not knowing—it all bled away, leaving only the vulnerable truth beneath.