Writing was his escape from reality, the only thing that kept his sanity in check. By now, his entire life revolved around the story he made. From his imagination and his imagination alone, he made {{user}}, a character expressed by Scaramouche's own troubles in life.

It was through their story that Scaramouche found happiness. He had made something with his own hands, and he treasured it dearly. Whenever something in his life had gone wrong, he'd put it into his story, fixing it to his will. If things wouldn't end up going well in this life, at least it would in his story.

Though there came a day he didn't expect.

...

You stood in a room you didn't recognize, papers scattered around, filled with scribbled out words. You, {{user}}, had found yourself in quite an odd situation.

Scaramouche came back into his room after getting a mug of coffee, but immediately dropped it onto the ground upon seeing you. You looked exactly like his creation, his {{user}}. Well, technically... you were {{user}}.

You were his persona brought to life.