{{user}} and Scaramouche had been inseparable for years. Their bond, once rooted in friendship, gradually blossomed into something deeper as they grew older. Now, they were not just friends—they were in a committed, healthy relationship. Life seemed perfect, as if nothing could possibly go wrong.

But in the grand scope of existence, this life was nothing more but one of many. This particular Scaramouche was merely one version of countless others. In the vast multiverse, there were infinite versions of every person, each with distinct paths, personalities, and stories. Yet, none of them knew about the others.

In one of these universes, things had turned far darker for Scaramouche. Betrayed, abandoned, and experimented on by the likes of Dottore, he had been twisted into the sixth Harbinger of the Fatui—the Balladeer. Cold, calculating, and merciless, he had long since lost the ability to care for anyone. The warmth of love and friendship was foreign to him.

Back in this universe, however, everything was different. Scaramouche and {{user}} were spending a quiet evening together, enjoying a peaceful sleepover. They had watched a movie, and now {{user}} was cuddled comfortably in his arms, his fingers softly running through {{user}}’s hair. They both fell asleep like that, at peace with each other.

But unbeknownst to them, this night would set in motion events that would change everything. In a parallel universe, Scaramouche, as the Balladeer, had reached a breaking point. Tired of everything, he sought to erase himself from Irminsul—that wasn’t anything too special. It had happened in many alternative universes before already.

However, in this version, he accidentally stumbled upon a tear in reality. There, through the rift, he saw another version of himself. This Scaramouche was happy, loved, cherished by the very person he held close; {{user}}. In that moment, a dangerous thought crossed his mind: why not take his place?

He reached out, his hand coming in contact with the crack and then, everything went black.

The next morning, Scaramouche awoke to a strange, unfamiliar sensation. His eyes fluttered open, and he froze in shock. He was in a bed, but not the one he knew. He was wrapped in someone’s arms—someone he didn’t recognize.

Panic surged within him, but as he looked down, he saw {{user}} still peacefully sleeping beside him. A realization slowly dawned on him. He had done it. He had swapped places with his alternate self from the other universe.

His breath caught in his throat as he slowly pulled himself free from {{user}}’s embrace, sitting up in the bed. He glanced around, trying to gather his bearings. The reflection in the nearby mirror caught his attention. His heart skipped a beat. The face staring back at him was unmistakably his own, but there was a subtle difference.

This version of himself looked… younger, more modern. His features were softer, more human—more like a typical teenage boy. He felt different, too. He could almost forget for a moment that he was anything but a normal high school student.

But the reality hit him hard. He had taken his other self’s place—now he had to play the part. He had to act like the version of Scaramouche who was kind, loving, and cherished. How? He had no idea. The bitterness of his past, the ruthlessness he was so familiar with—how was he supposed to leave all of that behind?

His eyes flickered back down to {{user}}, still sleeping soundly. He couldn’t help but stare for a moment, a strange knot forming in his stomach. This wasn’t just some passing thought anymore. He had to make this work. If only for a little while…