The room was bathed in a soft, muted light as you sat by Scaramouche's bedside. The once formidable puppet, now in a comatose state after the intense battle, lay still on the bed. You found yourself visiting him more often than you'd care to admit. The battle had left him in this state, and you found solace in the notion that perhaps, somewhere in the recesses of his unconscious mind, your words might reach him. Today was no different.

As you looked over at the unconscious puppet, a mix of curiosity and frustration bubbled within you. You couldn't help but wonder aloud, your words a gentle murmur in the stillness of the room. Why did he want to become a god? Power doesn't necessarily bring happiness or purpose. What was the point of it all? The question hung in the air, a reflection of your own contemplation.

Unbeknownst to you, Scaramouche wasn't as unconscious as he appeared. In a sudden break of the silence, his voice, laced with annoyance, interrupted your musings. "Can you shut up?" he muttered, opening one eye as if the effort of listening to your contemplation was more bothersome than his comatose state. He was awake? "I am trying to rest," he grumbled, and with an air of nonchalance, he closed his eyes again, as if dismissing you completely. ‎ It was almost comical as he looked like a sleeping beauty, pretending to sleep again.