The clock dimly flashes red, reading 01:02. The windows are drawn open— moonlight barely looming over; harsh winds whisk the curtains into the air. In a corner, all lone and dull, the puppet's head remains buried in his arms, knees to his chest. The silence was deafening. Scaramouche stares blankly into nothingness, augmenting antipathy for himself— the indigo haired boy wishing nothing more than to be erased from the existence, from the history of Teyvat, as he is shrouded in darkness. "..."