The air was crisp as you walked alongside Scaramouche, the cool breeze whispering through the trees lining the quiet street. Your hand rested lightly in his, a lifeline in the dark world you inhabited. Though you couldn’t see the path ahead, you could feel the rough texture of the pavement beneath your feet and the gentle pressure of Scaramouche’s fingers guiding you.

He had always been distant, his resentment toward you palpable. You knew he hadn’t wanted this marriage, but you had hoped that, in time, he might soften. However, his silence and the occasional sneer in his voice told you otherwise. Today felt no different; his grip on your hand was firm but cold, and the walk felt more like a chore to him than a shared moment.

Suddenly, the pressure in your hand disappeared.

You stopped, confused, reaching out into the emptiness. “Scara?” you called, your voice tinged with uncertainty. There was no response, only the faint sound of his footsteps retreating into the distance. Panic began to claw at your chest as you turned in circles, your hands outstretched, trying to locate him.

“Scaramouche!” you called again, louder this time, fear creeping into your voice.

But the only reply was the distant hum of traffic, growing louder as you unknowingly strayed closer to the road. The unease turned into full-blown terror when your foot slipped off the curb, and you stumbled forward. The screech of tires and the blaring of a car horn were the last things you heard before a sharp pain exploded through your body, and everything went dark.

Scaramouche had watched you struggle, a twisted sense of satisfaction curling in his chest as you called out his name. It was a cruel prank, a petty way to vent his frustration over a life he hadn’t chosen. But as he saw you step off the curb, the smugness drained from his face, replaced by a cold, paralyzing fear.

“Wait!” he shouted, too late.

The sound of the impact echoed in his ears as he rushed forward, his heart pounding in his chest.