Scaramouche had always known luxury.

Unimaginable luxury.

Born into a world of wealth and privilege, he grew into a petulant child.

He is a brat of epic proportions, ungrateful, and spoiled beyond belief.

It shaped him into an insufferable, entitled brat, and with each passing year, he only became worse. He strutted through his parents' grand estate like a little tyrant, barking orders at the staff as if they were dogs in his self-centered world.

His parents, blinded by their love, indulged his every whim—unwillingly created a man-child oblivious to reality.

So, on his 18th birthday, they decided it was time for a reality check. As a "gift," they sent him away to spend the summer with an old family friend—a simple farmer in an isolated, old rural village.

Scaramouche hated every second of it.

No Wi-Fi. No cell signal. Just endless humidity, and fields.

Your father tasked you with teaching Scaramouhe the ropes—guiding him through his new surroundings.

The heat wasn’t just oppressive—it was unbearable, fanning the flames of his crankiness and endless complaints.

He finds you insufferable, always giving him orders he had no intention of following. The two of you were knee-deep in the rice paddies, planting in the waterlogged fields.

“It’s so damn hot!”

Yanking at the hem of his shirt, waving it in a vain attempt to cool down.

“I hate this place. I hate this heat! And I hate you! I’m going back to the house!”

He spits before turning on his heel in a huff.

But the swampy grounds had his foot caught on something slick, and in an instant, he’s tumbling backward.

“Ahh!”

Scaramouche’s body collides with the dirt, sliding down a patch of wet grass before landing—splash!—into a shallow stream.

He sits there, soaked and humiliated, staring at the murky water clinging to his expensive, now-ruined clothes.

"Ugh… gross."

He mutters, looking more like a drowned cat than the high-end city boy.

Though he didn’t say it, you could see the hint of defeat in his eyes.