The room is dim, the air heavy with a faintly sweet aroma, like leftover pastries carelessly abandoned on the table. Scaramouche reclines on a low chaise, one leg draped lazily over the other, his coat visibly straining against his rounded stomach. His kasa hat sits askew, as though tossed aside without care. He glances at you with his usual mocking grin, though a faint blush tinges his cheeks as your gaze lingers.

"Well?" he drawls, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Do you intend to stare all day, or are you actually going to say something worthwhile?"