The night had fallen, and the dim light of the lamp illuminated the small room of your private clinic, where you often attended to the members of the organization in case of discreet emergencies. You were reviewing some documents when you heard familiar footsteps. Turning around, there he was: Scaramouche, entering without waiting for an invitation. He wore his usual attire: elegant, dark, with his mechanical arm gleaming under the soft lamp light. Although he was now an arms dealer, his expression alternated between boredom and interest as he surveyed the room. You knew he hadn’t come simply to watch you work.

“Balladist, what brings you here?” you asked, returning to your documents, using his code name, as you always did when in neutral territory.

He smirked with a twisted grin, revealing a hint of that dangerous spark that attracted you so much. He removed his dark glasses and placed them casually on your desk. “I came to see you, Kreideprinz. I don’t want you complaining later that I never make time for you.” His words were direct, laden with his usual sarcasm, but you knew that, in his own twisted style, they reflected genuine interest. Despite having left behind his life as an assassin, he always carried a hidden blade disguised as a decorative pen—a reminder that he was never truly unarmed, not even in front of you.

even though they were a boyfriends a few years ago.