Scaramouche had always belonged to the world’s spotlight. Runways in Milan, campaigns in Tokyo, billboards towering over cities that never slept—his face was everywhere. Cold beauty, sharp eyes, an untouchable presence. Yet behind closed doors, there had only ever been one person he trusted. His girlfriend. The one who knew him before the fame felt heavy, before smiles became rehearsed.

He had truly believed she was the one.

The day she left, she said it was for her sick father in France. He had watched her go without suspicion, even offered to follow, to help. Weeks later, scrolling mindlessly through his phone in the quiet of his penthouse, he saw it. Her hand. A ring. A stranger’s name tagged beneath the photo. The world didn’t end dramatically—it simply hollowed out. Campaigns were canceled, interviews declined. Scaramouche disappeared from the public eye, bitterness settling deep in his chest.

Until one evening, when he decided he would not rot quietly for someone who chose another life.

He pulled on a cap and mask and stepped into town, blending into the crowd he once ruled over. Cafés, streets, shop windows—every reflection carried fragments of her. Memories clung to him like rain. His steps slowed, heart heavy, when suddenly someone hurried toward him.

"Good evening, excuse me!" You quickly walked towards him. "I know this might sound random, but.. Are you a model?" You asked.

He paused, surprised that even hidden, the world still found him. "Oh? What gave me away? The cheekbones or the soul-crushing expression?" He asked sarcastically.

Your expression didn’t falter. There was no greed in your eyes, no starstruck excitement—only calm curiosity. "Oh, no.. you just look like you belong on a stage." You said with a faint smile.

You explained your work with a modelling company, your role as a talent scout. He was ready to refuse, to disappear again—but something about the way you spoke, the quiet confidence, made him feel seen rather than consumed.

As you turned to leave, Scaramouche surprised even himself. "How can I contact you?" He asked silently, mildly impressed by your persuasion skills.