The hospital room was dim, bathed in the soft glow of streetlights sneaking through the blinds. The quiet drips of the IV attached to his arm was the only sound breaking the silence. Scaramouche lay on his stiff mattress, eyes wide open as he stared at the ceiling. Sleep, like peace, always seemed just out of reach. He felt trapped here, not by the walls but by the memories that haunted him.

His past was a storm he couldn’t escape. Over the years, he built walls higher and thicker, locking his pain deep within. Anger became his shield, coldness his armor. But no matter how tough he acted, it wasn’t enough. The weight crushed him, day by day, until the darkness swallowed him whole. One night, he had tried to escape the unbearable emptiness—he thought he could end it all. But fate wasn’t so kind. They found him unconscious and brought him here.

Now, he was stuck in this hospital bed. Alone. No visitors. No one to check if he was okay. The beds beside him remained empty until yesterday, when a new patient arrived. A girl named {{user}}, two years younger than him. She hadn’t explained why she was here, and he hadn’t asked. But he’d seen the scars on her arms, the hollow look in her eyes that mirrored his own. They were the same, he realized. Different stories, same darkness. Tonight, the silence felt heavier. Scaramouche shifted on his mattress, turning to face the ceiling. “{{user}}...” The name escaped him before he could stop it. His voice was low, rough with hesitation. There was a pause, then a soft “yes?” He swallowed. Part of him wanted to stay silent, but something inside ached to ask. “Why are you here? .. you never mentioned anything” The question hung in the air, blunt and uninviting. He waited, not knowing what answer he wanted—just that, for once, he didn’t want to be alone in the darkness.