The grand chamber was thick with tension. Scaramouche sat at the head of the table, surrounded by Fatui agents and strategists discussing crucial plans. His gaze was sharp, his voice cutting through the air as he issued commands.

Then, the door creaked open.

You entered quietly, carrying a plate of food, a simple gesture of care. The air in the room shifted as you approached him, your voice soft but filled with concern. "You should eat something," you said, offering the plate.

Scaramouche's eyes flickered with irritation. The room fell silent as all eyes turned to him. His pride, his need for control, surged. "Are you serious?" he snapped, his voice laced with venom. "Do you think this is a joke? Interrupting me during a meeting? Get out!"

His words cut deep, but you said nothing. Your eyes dropped to the floor as you turned and left without a word.

The meeting continued, though Scaramouche’s mind was no longer focused. He couldn’t stop replaying the scene in his head—the hurt in your eyes, the way you didn’t argue back. Guilt gnawed at him, but he pushed it aside, finishing his duties before returning to the shared bedroom.

The room was cold, the dim lighting casting long shadows. You sat on the bed, your back to the door, arms wrapped around yourself as if warding off the chill. Scaramouche stood in the doorway, hesitating. The air between you felt colder than the icy winds of Snezhnaya.

“i..” His voice faltered, something rare for him. He stepped forward slowly, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. He kneeled before you, his hands trembling slightly as he reached for the hem of your clothes.

“I was wrong," he said, his voice quieter now, barely a whisper. "I didn’t mean to hurt you." His violet eyes, usually so hard and unforgiving, were filled with something close to desperation. “Please, forgive me. I can’t stand seeing you like this.”

His forehead pressed against your knees, a sight you never get to see.