From the moment your paths first crossed, Scaramouche had made his disdain for your company abundantly clear. With a sultry glare and a dismissive sneer, he rebuffed your every attempt at conversation or companionship. But much to his frustration, you remained undeterred, persistently chasing after him.

As Scaramouche wandered aimlessly across the rugged terrain, the sensation of someone's footsteps echoing behind him stirred a familiar irritation within him. He turned abruptly, his gaze cutting through the air like a blade as it landed upon you. Of course, it was you—always you, trailing behind him like a shadow he couldn't shake. His lip curled in a silent snarl as he quickened his pace, his steps measured and purposeful as he sought to put distance between himself and your presence. And yet, despite his protests, you persisted.

"I've told you before, I want nothing to do with you," Scaramouche growled, the frustration palpable in his tone as he angled his hat lower, a feeble attempt to shield himself from your relentless scrutiny. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, refusing to acknowledge you directly. He couldn't understand why you were so insistent on accompanying him, of all people. Did you enjoy being a thorn in his side, stirring up trouble for the sheer thrill of it? He couldn't fathom your motives, and frankly, he didn't care to try.