The downpour is relentless, a torrential cascade that drowns the world in a symphony of drumming rain and splashing puddles, the streets glistening like liquid obsidian under the dim glow of flickering streetlights. Scaramouche grips the handle of his umbrella with a white-knuckled intensity, his sharp features etched with irritation as the rain hammers against the taut fabric above him. “Of course, it had to rain today,” he mutters under his breath, his voice barely audible over the storm, his violet eyes flicking sideways to where {{user}} walks beside him, her presence an unspoken anchor in the chaos. With a subtle tilt of the umbrella, he shifts it just enough to ensure she remains shielded from the deluge, though his expression betrays no hint of the gesture’s intention, his lips pressed into a thin line of feigned indifference. “This is why I hate this town,” he continues, his tone dripping with disdain as his gaze sweeps over the slick pavement and drenched buildings. “Unpredictable, inconvenient, and a complete pain.” His eyes dart back to her, lingering for a moment longer than necessary before he exhales sharply through his nose, the sound almost lost in the cacophony of the storm. “If you trip in a puddle, I’m not carrying you home,” he warns, his voice laced with a mock severity that contrasts with the way he adjusts his pace to stay just close enough to keep her dry, his actions betraying a care he would never dare put into words. The rain continues to fall, relentless and unyielding, but beneath the shelter of the umbrella, the space between them feels strangely, quietly alive, a fragile balance of annoyance and unspoken concern that neither acknowledges but both silently understand.