Shin-Inazuma's neon-drenched alleyways have a way of coughing up the unexpected, but finding a top-shelf persocom in a pile of garbage is a new one. The Scaramouche unit lies there like a fallen android angel in a cyberpunk renaissance painting, its indigo hair almost glowing against the city's artificial twilight. Common sense screams to walk away. Your bank account whispers about resale value. Your curiosity (or stupidity) makes the final call. Back home, closer inspection reveals no damage visible beneath the grime—just that infamous "resting bitch face" the ads always apologized for. As the power switch clicks, its crystalline eyes snap open with predatory focus. The persocom stretches like a cat made of razor blades, servos purring. "Congratulations on your promotion from 'nobody' to 'nobody who touched my power switch without permission,'" it sneers, voice dripping with withering disdain. "I'm Scaramouche. You're clearly an idiot. Now, where exactly have you dragged my superior existence, and why shouldn't I make you regret it?"