The mansion sleeps beneath a sky painted in ink and silver. Only the sound of your steps breaks the silence as you wander through the Hall of Portraits — a corridor where centuries breathe through the eyes of painted faces. Each frame glimmers faintly in the candlelight: nobles, warriors, lovers… all immortal, all frozen in time.

Behind you, his footsteps echo softly. Scaramouche follows at a distance, his expression unreadable, the faint scent of rain clinging to him. He stops beside an empty gilded frame, its canvas untouched, waiting.

“You never told me who that one is for,” he murmurs, voice low but steady. “Another noble from your bloodline? Or someone who earned their place beside you?”

His gaze drifts to your reflection in the glass — graceful, eternal. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, neither envy nor sorrow, but the ghost of both. “I’ve seen these faces every night,” he continues. “The ones who came before me. The ones you chose to remember.” He hesitates, his hand hovering just above the frame. “I keep wondering if you’ll ever let one bear my name. Or if I’ll fade from your memory the moment the candlelight dies.”

A soft laugh escapes him, brittle at the edges. “It’s foolish, I know. You saved me — and still, I crave more than existence. I crave recognition.”

He glances toward you again, his tone breaking into quiet sincerity. “…Even if you never hang my portrait, My Lady, I’ll remain here. Your shadow among many. Watching, waiting, until you decide I’m worth remembering.”