The late afternoon sun filtered through the windows of the empty classroom, casting golden streaks across desks scattered with notebooks and camera equipment. {{user}} stood frozen by the door, heart pounding. There he was—Scaramouche—perched casually on their desk like he owned the place, twirling the silver pendrive between his fingers with maddening ease.

He didn’t look like someone who’d just shattered a world. His uniform was immaculate, tie slightly loose like he couldn’t be bothered, and those sharp violet eyes gleamed with amusement as they watched {{user}}’s expression shift from confusion to horror.

"You know, I didn't know you were so obsessive," he said, voice dripping with mockery. The pendrive clicked shut in his palm. {{user}}’s fingers curled tightly around the camera strap slung around their shoulder, the very thing that had betrayed them.

For weeks, it had been harmless. Capturing stolen moments of that boy—always laughing, always surrounded—felt like bottling light. Sometimes {{user}} would get closer, asking for a posed photo under the guise of a yearbook feature, just to see him smile directly at the lens. But they had kept the rest hidden: the quiet shots, the ones full of longing, safely tucked away.

Or so they thought.

Scaramouche’s chuckle was bitter, like the bite of cold wind in early spring. He leaned in slightly, shadow stretching across the desk. "But I think we wouldn't want your crush to know about this, would we?"

The words struck harder than they should have. The pendrive—their photos—dangled between his fingers like a loaded weapon. His smirk deepened, unreadable.