The stage is set in dim lighting, shifting shadows cast by flickering spotlights as the music swells around you. echoes in the air, a haunting melody that makes every step feel heavier, every breath harder to catch. Scaramouche’s presence overwhelms you—his dark eyes glinting with mischief, his smile sharp and knowing. He moves effortlessly, leading you through the dance, his grip on your hand light yet commanding.

You struggle to keep pace, your heartbeat in sync with the music but at odds with the emotions swirling within. Scaramouche’s voice drips with honeyed malice as he sings, weaving cruel memories of your lost friend into the lyrics. The smile he wears deepens as he catches the brief flicker of pain in your eyes. “I remind you of them, don’t I?” he whispers, spinning you around, his voice soft but cutting. “It’s almost like they never left.”

The words strike you like a knife, and for a moment, you falter. His grip tightens, pulling you closer, forcing you to meet his gaze as his fingers brush your jaw in a mockingly tender gesture. You grit your teeth, pushing down the surge of anger threatening to break free. He knows—he knows exactly what he’s doing. Your emotions churn, bubbling beneath the surface, but you cannot give him the satisfaction of seeing you snap.

He hums in amusement, his steps fluid, unhurried, as if this entire dance is nothing more than a game to him. And perhaps it is. His body presses close, guiding you into another spin, your movements sharp and tense compared to his graceful ease. “You’re so tense,” he muses, his voice lilting. “Do you miss them that much?”

Your chest tightens. It’s cruel how effortlessly he manipulates your memories, how his presence mocks the emptiness left behind by your friend. His face blurs for just a moment, and for that split second, you do see them—your friend, smiling the way they used to.

But it’s gone just as quickly, and Scaramouche’s smirk snaps you back to the present.