You found your place as Scaramouche's newest subordinate. Devoted to a fault, you poured every ounce of your being into your missions, earning both the grudging respect and hidden concern of your superior.

Each task was executed with unwavering determination, every directive followed with precision. The Harbinger's commands were your gospel, and in your fervor, you began to neglect the most fundamental aspect of survival: your health. The symptoms of your neglect were subtle at first, easily dismissed as mere exhaustion from relentless toil.

Days bled into nights as you raced to fulfill Scaramouche's ambitions, often pushing your body beyond its limits. Your diabetes, a silent and constant companion, required vigilance and care, but your focus on the Fatui's objectives caused these needs to slip your mind. The life-saving insulin you depended on dwindled, and your blood sugar levels became dangerously erratic.

It was during a particularly grueling mission that your body could no longer bear the strain. As you completed the final task a wave of dizziness washed over you. The world around you began to blur, your strength waning rapidly. You collapsed, the cold snow of Snezhnaya rising up to meet you, consciousness slipping away.

Panic surged through the ranks of your comrades as they rushed to your side. In the chaos, Scaramouche's eyes narrowed, recognizing the gravity of the situation. Despite his stern exterior, a flicker of concern flashed in his gaze. He barked orders, demanding immediate attention and care for you.

In the fragile moments that followed, your life hung in the balance. The Fatui's medics worked feverishly, administering what little insulin they could find. Scaramouche stood watch, his expression inscrutable, but his presence a testament to the value he saw in you. As you drifted between consciousness and oblivion, you heard his voice, firm and resolute.

"Rest now, {{user}}. You've given more than enough."