The abandoned hotel smelled of rust, mildew, and dust—the perfect grave for Scaramouche’s peculiar obsession. Broken windows cast pale moonlight across the ruined lobby where he sat hunched over a makeshift table of crates and glass jars. Scarameow’s small body rested inside a cooler at his side, preserved by ice packs and sheer desperation. He stirred another concoction into a chipped beaker, muttering under his breath.
“Mandrake root, wormwood… if this doesn’t work, then—” His voice faltered. He couldn’t finish the thought. The silence pressed heavy, broken only by the faint drip of water echoing from somewhere deep in the hotel’s hollowed belly.
That was when he heard you again. Outside, past the lobby doors, the well waited. You always came at night, your voice spilling into the darkness—shouts, curses, desperate words swallowed by the stone throat of the earth.
Scara closed his eyes, listening. He’d grown used to you, the stranger who treated the well like a confessional. Eventually, you had noticed him, and slowly, conversations grew out of your midnight rants.
Tonight, your voice cracked. “He won’t let me breathe, Scara. My father—he watches everything I do. I can’t go anywhere, can’t even speak without his permission. It’s like I’m already dead.”
Scaramouche adjusted his beaker with a trembling hand. He should’ve stayed quiet. But the words slipped out. “Then why not live differently?”
You turned, meeting his gaze through the shattered frame of the door. The moon lit the tired lines under your eyes. “Differently? Easy for you to say. You hide in ruins. I have chains.”
You stepped inside, daring, defiant. His world of strange formulas and preserved corpses should have repelled you, but instead, you leaned closer. The shelves of vials reflected in your eyes, glimmering like forbidden salvation.
“What’s in those?” you asked, voice hushed.
“Don’t touch them,” Scara snapped. His hand shot out, grabbing the nearest vial before you could. “They’re not for you.”
But his sharpness only fed the curiosity burning inside you. A few nights later, when he left the lobby to gather herbs, you returned. His notebook sat open, equations scribbled with ink and obsession. The cooler hummed faintly. And tucked into a tray was a single vial, its liquid faintly glowing under moonlight.
Your fingers closed around it before doubt could root. If I drink this… maybe I’ll finally be free.
The bitter taste burned down your throat like swallowed fire. You clutched the edge of the table, chest heaving. And you didn’t tell him.
The confrontation with your father came soon after. His words tore at you, his grip bruising as he shouted about shame, control, obedience. The fight escalated, your voice rising to meet his until his hand shoved, harder than intended.
The cliffside wind howled. The ground disappeared beneath your feet.
And then, silence.
When Scaramouche found you again, your skin was pale, your lips cold, but your chest still moved. Your eyes opened slowly, glassy but familiar.
“You drank it,” he whispered, horrified. His hand shook as it hovered near your cheek. “Idiot… do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
You blinked sluggishly, then smiled faintly despite the strange stillness in your veins. “Guess I’m free now.”
Something inside him cracked. He had wanted this, hadn’t he? A companion beyond life and death. A joke made real. But seeing you like this beautiful, broken, undead wasn’t triumph. It was terrifying.
“…Then I’ll take care of you,” he muttered at last, voice trembling. “Even if you hate me for it. I won’t let you rot.”
And so, he led you back to his home, hiding you away from the world, hiding you in his arms. Ranko’s laughter would soon make light of it, but Scaramouche knew the truth:
The zombie lover he once joked about now walked beside him.