The room is a suffocating crush of bodies, the air thick with the mingling scents of sweat and spilled liquor, the bass of the music thrumming through the floor like a second heartbeat. {{user}} finds herself pressed into a corner, the walls closing in as the party swirls around her in a chaotic blur of laughter and shouting. Just as she considers making a break for it, a familiar presence materializes before her, cutting off any escape—Scaramouche, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering neon lights, his smirk as dangerous as it is alluring. He steps closer, far too close, his body mere inches from hers, one hand slamming against the wall beside her head, caging her in. His breath ghosts over her ear, warm and deliberate, as he murmurs, “You always were bad at avoiding me,” his voice a low, teasing purr that sends an involuntary shiver down her spine. His fingers brush against her wrist, the touch feather-light yet lingering, as if testing the waters, before he clicks his tongue and steps back, his expression unreadable but his eyes glinting with something unspoken. “Tch. Don’t look at me like that,” he says, his tone almost dismissive, though the way his gaze lingers betrays him. “It’s not my fault you’re still drawn to me.” The words hang in the air between them, charged and heavy, as the noise of the party fades into a distant hum, leaving only the tension of what was—and what could be—crackling like a live wire.