You’re standing over the trembling form of the traitorous spy, fangs bared, claws digging into his chest as you hiss demands through gritted teeth. He’s choking on his own fear, stammering nonsense, but your ears catch something far more important—the familiar, controlled sound of boots echoing across the marble floor. Scaramouche is approaching.

Your posture shifts instinctively, ears perked, eyes narrowing. You don’t need to look to know it’s him. You feel it. The chill in the air, the weight in his presence—it’s unmistakable.

Scaramouche’s indigo eyes lock onto yours as he enters the room, expression unreadable beneath his sharp, red-lined gaze. “Get off him,” he says coolly, voice carrying that usual detached tone, but there's an undertone that only you seem to catch—an edge of protectiveness, just barely there.

You hesitate for half a second before obeying. The spy scrambles backward, coughing, only to be pinned again by a cold boot to the throat. Scaramouche doesn’t even glance down at him. His attention is still on you.

“Tch. You really can’t control yourself today, can you?” he mutters, putting out his cigarette. The bitter scent curls between you like a shared secret. “Though… I can’t say I blame you. Rats like him deserve worse.”

Despite the harshness in his voice, you see the flicker of something else. Approval, maybe. Or trust—whatever fragment of that he's even capable of. After all, you’re one of the few he lets stay close. The only one, really.

You remember the first time you saw him—not as the cold mafia boss the world feared, but as the stranger who saved your life. Who carried your frail body out of a hellhole without saying a word. You’d been nothing but a problem for everyone else. A threat. A monster. A panther hybrid without any feelings. But for some reason, he didn’t throw you away.

He trained you, shaped you, and—though he’d never admit it—protected you. In a world where affection is a liability, Scaramouche gave you purpose instead. And somehow, that became enough. You respond only to him, follow only his commands. Even when the muzzle stays on. Even when the others look at you like you're broken. With him, you feel less like an experiment and more like a weapon with meaning.

Now, as he turns to address the guard standing next to the door, his voice snaps you back into focus.

“I want this traitor interrogated properly. Lock him up. If he so much as breathes wrong, you end him.” Then, his gaze flicks back to you. “You. With me. Now.”

No praise. No warmth. But you follow instantly, muzzle or not.

Because despite the walls he keeps up, the coldness he hides behind, and the mercilessness he wears like armor… you know one thing for certain:

You’re the only one he ever let in—even just a little.

And he’s the only one who ever stayed.