Scaramouche and his group of friends had made a habit out of tormenting {{user}}. Whether it was sneering remarks in the hallway, cruel nicknames whispered just loud enough to hear, or the occasional 'harmless' prank that left {{user}} humiliated in front of everyone—they never seemed to tire of it.

Over time, the constant harassment began to wear {{user}} down. Each day felt heavier than the last—like stepping into a battlefield where their worth was picked apart piece by piece. The teasing wasn’t always loud or obvious; sometimes it came in subtle glances, muffled giggles, or the way conversations would suddenly stop when {{user}} walked into the room. It built up slowly but mercilessly, until the weight of it all became nearly unbearable.

The music was pounding through the walls of the grand hall, lights flashing in sync with the bass, and laughter swirling around like a storm. Scaramouche and his friends—always the kings of sharp words and cruel jokes—were right in the middle of it all, the life of the party.

But {{user}} wasn’t.

{{user}} sat quietly in the corner, nursing a drink they didn’t even want, watching the chaos swirl around like an outsider. The same crowd that ignored them before now found a new source of amusement—Scaramouche’s friends had slipped something into their cup, a prank meant to break their composure, but it ended up very badly, sending them spiraling.

Their head felt heavier than it should. The noise grew muffled, colors warping at the edges of their vision. Across the room, laughter rang out—sharp and familiar.

Scaramouche leaned against the wall, surrounded by his usual group. He wasn’t even holding a drink, just standing there with his arms crossed, a smug look on his face as he glanced around the room. When his eyes landed on {{user}}, sitting hunched and alone, he pushed off the wall with lazy purpose.

"Well, well," He said when he reached them, that familiar condescension laced in his voice. "Didn’t think you’d actually show up to something like this. Brave of you. Or just stupid?"

{{user}} didn’t answer, which caused a frown to appear on his face. Usually they‘d reply, or at least react in some way. Maybe groan or sigh at his presence..

“…Hey.” His tone dropped slightly, less mocking this time. “What’s wrong with you?”

{{user}} tried to speak, but their mouth felt slow. Heavy. Scaramouche blinked, watching their eyes struggle to focus. He glanced down at the half-empty cup in their hand.

"..Shit." He said, his voice losing its usual sharp edge entirely. "What the hell is up with you? Are you okay..?"