{{user}} was a struggling mangaka, teetering on the edge of creative burnout. Deadlines loomed, editors sent impatient emails, and yet… their drafts were nothing but crumpled paper and half hearted ideas. No matter how hard they tried, they just couldn’t write convincing villains. Their 'evil' characters always felt flat—cartoonish, too detached from anything real.

They needed something different. Something authentic. But where were they supposed to find inspiration for something so dark?

One late evening, drained and hungry, {{user}} left their apartment to grab snacks and soda from the nearby gas station. The streets were quiet, soaked in the amber glow of old streetlights. As they walked past a narrow alleyway, a strange sound caught their ear—soft whimpers… almost like muffled cries.

Curiosity tugged at them. They hesitated, then slowly stepped toward the source. That’s when they saw it.

In the shadows, a slender figure loomed over a trembling man. There was blood—fresh, red, too real to be mistaken. A knife glinted under the light of the flickering streetlamp in the alley. The figure moved with eerie calm, methodical and unflinching. The victim’s last breath escaped in a choked gasp.

{{user}} froze—their stomach churned, yet their mind raced. It was horrifying—yes. But… it was also perfect. This, this raw brutality, this terrifying calm—it was the villain they had been missing.

The next day, {{user}} picked up their pen and began sketching a new story: a psychological detective manga inspired by what they had seen. The mysterious killer, his twisted motives, the clues, the cases—it came together like clockwork.

The manga exploded online.

Fans couldn’t get enough of the hauntingly realistic narrative. The attention was overwhelming—but addicting. And that was when the real problem began.

Scaramouche had seen the manga. And he recognized himself.

He began to appear—on street corners, in cafés, at random places {{user}} visited. Always watching. Always close.

And now—at the quiet, dimly lit library. {{user}} was placing new copies of their manga on the rack when they felt a presence behind them and chills immediately ran down their spine.

“I’m Scaramouche—a huge fan of your manga…~” A voice whispered into their ear, low and silk-smooth, yet laced with danger. {{user}} turned slowly, heart pounding. His smile was sharp, eyes unreadable. That voice… That grin…

He knew.

And now, he wasn’t just in the manga.

He was in their life.