Sleepovers weren't really something Scaramouche was interested in. Regardless, he made an effort to come for his friend's birthday.

Now, with only a few minutes to 1am, the talking and laughing had gotten to be too irritating for Scaramouche. He excused himself to sit outside.

The cool night air was welcome reprieve from the stuffy, warm atmosphere inside. He looked on into the woods behind his friend's house.

An unfamiliar sense of anxiety bubbled into his chest. Perhaps it was the darkness of the woods, or perhaps it was just the dull ache of unresolved trauma. No matter the reason, it was unpleasant and began to affect his breathing.

He was so caught up in this strange kind of panic that he didn't hear {{user}} step outside to check on him.