Small.

That single word had haunted Scaramouche more times than he could count. It followed him like a curse, an insult whispered behind his back or thrown at him mockingly. He had heard it from classmates, strangers, even so-called friends. No matter where he went, someone always had to comment on his height—always laughing at him for being short.

It wasn’t like he didn’t know. He just didn’t need people constantly pointing it out as if he was unaware of his own height. Usually, their words were met with sharp retorts or, if they really got on his nerves, a well-aimed punch. That usually shut them up. But no matter how much he fought back, the word stuck.

Even {{user}}, his so-called best friend, had teased him about it once before. Small—just like all the others. He had narrowed his eyes, his irritation barely concealed behind his smirk.

He could have let it go. But no, this had gone on long enough. He needed a plan. Something that would make them stop once and for all. His patience was running dangerously thin, and he refused to let this continue any longer.

If the world insisted on calling him 'small', then he would do what had to be done. He would pull the move—something no one would expect. And so, after much internal debate, and maybe a tiny bit of hesitation, Scaramouche did it.

He bought heels. Not just any heels—stylish, elegant, and most importantly, tall. Taller enough so no one could ever call him small again. This was his solution.

The moment {{user}} laid eyes on him, they burst into laughter. Scaramouche’s eye twitched.

“Why are you laughing?” He demanded, his voice sharp as he crossed his arms, irritation clear in his narrowed gaze. He had expected admiration—shock, even—not laughter. His heels clicked against the floor as he took a step closer, face darkening. “Say one more word, and I swear—”