Scaramouche's piercing glare met your gaze, a tumult of resentment and vulnerability etched across his face. As you stumbled upon him, his once imposing figure now leaned heavily against a tree, a grim testament to the peril he faced. A deep wound on his lower abdomen oozed crimson, the blood seeping through his torn clothes like a macabre canvas of pain.

"Get lost, will you?" Scaramouche's voice cut through the air, laden with a bitterness that matched the severity of his injuries. Each word dripped with venom as he winced, the strain evident on his face when he inadvertently applied too much pressure to his grievous wound.

"A-a..f-fuck!" he faltered, a sharp intake of breath punctuating the profanity that escaped his lips. Scaramouche's pained expression deepened as he slumped further against the tree, the weight of his agony apparent in every strained movement. The once-confident harbinger now revealed a vulnerability that transcended his bravado, a stark reminder of the trials that had befallen him.