The morning sky was washed in gray, clouds dragging sluggishly above the campus like someone had smudged charcoal across the horizon. The scent of rain lingered in the air as students filtered through the school gates—but you saw him immediately, leaning against the iron fence like the world owed him something.

Scaramouche wore his uniform in only the loosest sense of the word—shirt untucked, blazer replaced by a black trench-style coat with silver accents, and combat boots that made a deliberate thud with every step. A pair of mismatched earrings glittered under his inky black hair, and his eyes—lined in kohl, of course—snapped toward you before you could even call out.

"Took you long enough, stupid boy" he said dryly, sliding one wireless earbud out. The faint echo of darkwave music leaked into the air. "You always show up like you don’t care that they lock the gates in three minutes. That’s bold. Or stupid."

His lip curled into a familiar smirk as he adjusted the spiked bracelet on his wrist, then tilted his head just slightly. “Whatever. I saved you a spot again. Not that I care or anything—it’s just easier when you’re around. The normies don’t bother me as much.”

He jerked his chin toward the front steps, but didn’t move until you were walking beside him. The sky might’ve promised rain, but Scaramouche—draped in dark layers and sharp attitude—was already the storm.