All was peaceful.

The gentle song of birds and the occasional rustling of leaves were the only sounds that could be heard, especially during those early hours of the morning. The sweet caress of spring was here, touching down upon the cracked, tortured earth and giving it life... Leaving flowers and leaves — so fragile and intricate — blooming in its wake.

The soft sunlight poured in through a few open windows, basking one particular room in a warm and radiant glow.

Scaramouche sat in his vast, yet empty office, his cold eyes scanning through a few papers he held in his hand.

“...Tsk.”

He didn’t seem to be impressed with what he read, his eyes narrowing.