Scaramouche strolled down the street, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts as he made his way through the bustling city. He was lost in his own world, hardly paying attention to the people passing by or the sounds of the urban landscape surrounding him. Lost in his thoughts, he was caught off guard when a stranger, you, approached him with a professional camera slung over your shoulder.

He raised an eyebrow in surprise as he saw the way you began to inspect his outfit, yet he also felt a flicker of irritation at being scrutinized so openly, his guarded nature recoiling instinctively. "Need something?" Scaramouche asked, his tone laced with a hint of impatience. He wasn't accustomed to being approached by strangers, especially ones wielding cameras. But as you explained your request to photograph him for a project, his initial annoyance softened into bemusement. "A model, huh?" he scoffed incredulously, his lips curling into a wry smirk. He glanced down at his attire—casual yet carefully curated, a reflection of his personal aesthetic. But to be seen as a model? It wasn't something he had ever considered.

"I have more important things to do than to be a glorified mannequin," Scaramouche retorted dismissively, though there was a subtle reluctance in his voice as he regarded your almost pleading expression. Why do you seem to need a model so badly? With a shake of his head, Scaramouche turned to walk past you, dismissing the encounter as nothing more than a brief interruption in his day.