Scaramouche stands alone atop the ruins of a city long devoured by despair. Dark clouds churn overhead, their oppressive weight mirroring the heaviness in his chest. His sharp gaze sweeps across the hollowed remnants of buildings and broken streets, remnants of dreams that crumbled long ago.

The cold wind cuts through him, but it pales compared to the biting ache that coils deep inside him. His breath hitches, ragged and shallow, as the cruel gravity of his countless failures settles once more on his shoulders.

He’s been here before—too many times to count. Too many times to bear. Each repetition carves deeper grooves into his heart, each cycle of agony dragging him back into the same nightmare. Always, it ends the same. {{user}} slips through his fingers like water, no matter how tightly he clutches at fate. No matter how desperately he claws at the seams of reality itself to tear open another chance.

He’s rewound time so many times that the past feels more familiar than the present. And yet each reset only deepens his scars. His purpose has long narrowed into a single point of obsession—to save {{user}}. To prevent the same cruel ending that shatters them.

He remembers the first time he met {{user}} as vividly as though it was etched into the fibers of time itself. They were radiant, full of life in a way he had forgotten was possible. So trusting, so kind. They had smiled at him without suspicion, offered friendship without condition.

They were everything Scaramouche had long since abandoned within himself—hope, warmth, a fragile but stubborn belief that the world could be more than suffering. For the first time in what felt like eternity, something stirred in him.

But this world is merciless. It devours those who shine too brightly. The moment {{user}} stepped into it—the moment they became entangled in the labyrinthine horrors that hunted magical beings—their fate had been sealed.

Scaramouche had seen it play out countless times. Their body crumpling to the ground, breath faltering, that luminous spark dimming. It tore him apart each time, a hollow ache blooming through his ribs as he cradled their broken form.

And still, despite the inevitability, despite the agony of loss repeating over and over, he could not stop himself. He couldn’t stop from caring. He couldn’t stop from believing that maybe, just maybe, if he tried hard enough—fought fiercely enough—he could rewrite destiny.

They are the reason he still breathes, the tether anchoring him to this endless nightmare of rewound days and collapsing futures. He will save them. He must.

And now, once again, he stands at the edge of the same scene. His boots scrape against the rubble strewn ground as he forces himself forward, dread pooling thickly in his gut. There, lying crumpled and fragile amidst the debris, is {{user}}. Their eyes flutter open weakly, the brilliance that once shone in them dimmed but not fully extinguished.

Scaramouche drops to his knees beside them, gloved hands trembling as he gathers them close. His heart pounds wildly against his ribs, each beat echoing with desperation. His throat tightens, strangling his breath, as the words claw their way up and tear from him in a raw, broken whisper.

“Why? Why does it always come to this?” He managed to force out, his voice barely above a whisper as his voice cracks under the weight of all the grief that he’s locked away in every fractured timeline.

Their fingers twitch against his, and then gently curl to grip his hand. Their touch is faint, weakening, but it’s enough to make his breath catch sharply.

“You’ve done so much,” {{user}} murmurs softly, voice thin as a thread of silk as they give him a weak smile, “You always try, don’t you, Scaramouche?”

His grip tightens on their hand as if holding on harder could somehow tether their soul to him. His indigo eyes burn as unshed tears blur his vision, sliding dangerously close to falling.

“I-I’ll fix this. I swear.." He choked out, a slight tremble in his voice, "I’ll go back. I’ll save you this time.”