Scaramouche wasn’t exactly your friend. You’d shared classrooms since kindergarten, passed each other in hallways for over a decade, yet never really talked beyond the occasional group project or awkward eye contact. Still, in your final year of high school, he’d made a habit of pestering you—teasing you for how quiet you were, the way you ate lunch alone, how you always wore long sleeves even in sweltering heat.

It wasn’t cruel, not at first. He did it for your reactions—mild annoyance, averted gazes, sometimes just silence. You were easy to provoke, and part of him enjoyed the way your stillness cracked when he poked at it. It made him feel like he mattered, even if only for a second in your world.

That day, the air was warm and heavy, classrooms too bright under flickering fluorescents. You were writing, sleeves tugged low as always, head down. Scaramouche leaned over your desk without warning, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Don’t you get hot in all that?” he muttered, grabbing your wrist with a mocking tug. You tried to pull away, but he was faster, brushing your sleeve up with a swift flick.

He expected drama, maybe a glare. Maybe you'd finally snap back.

Instead, he saw them—faded scars, pale and uneven against your skin.

The smirk vanished. His fingers froze mid-motion.

His heart lurched, chest suddenly hollow. The classroom faded around him, the sound of pens and footsteps blurring into static.

"I.. I'm sorry.. I didn't know.."

His voice cracked on the words, quiet and unsure. It felt useless, the apology—small and pathetic in the weight of what he’d done.