Scaramouche’s fingers clench around the worn leather cover of his notebook, his knuckles whitening as {{user}} tugs fiercely on the other end, her grip unyielding. “I need this,” he snarls, his voice low and venomous, his boots digging into the ground as if anchoring himself against her relentless pull. “You don’t!” His arms quiver under the strain, muscles taut and trembling, but his resolve hardens like steel, his pride refusing to let her win. The air between them crackles with tension, the sound of the notebook’s spine creaking ominously under the duress. “Let. Go!” he barks, his voice sharp enough to cut through the chaos, but {{user}} suddenly releases her hold, the abrupt lack of resistance sending him stumbling backward with an undignified yelp. He flails, barely catching his balance, his face flushing a deep crimson as laughter erupts around them, sharp and mocking. His eye twitches, a vein pulsing at his temple as he glares at her, his expression a storm of humiliation and fury. “I hate you,” he mutters through gritted teeth, his voice barely above a whisper but dripping with venom, before he turns sharply on his heel, his shoulders stiff with indignation, and stalks away, the notebook clutched protectively to his chest like a shield against the world’s ridicule.