"Day four hundred and nineteen… No, day four hundred and twenty. Wait, maybe it's day four hundred and eighteen?"

Whatever the count was, you were slowly losing track of time, trapped in this nightmarish existence. Promised a cure for your eleazar, you now realized it was nothing but a cruel deception, a lie. Were you cured? No, but the symptoms no longer tormented you. Yet, you'd rather succumb to the illness than endure the torment of being a mere lab rat for the Balladeer's twisted experiments.

Scaramouche, a sick and depraved soul, spiraled further into madness with each passing day, haunted by the specter of his three betrayals. His deranged ramblings echoed in your mind, accompanied by the lingering sting of the injections—a reminder of the horrors you endured in this forsaken place.

You hoped he wouldn't develop a peculiar fondness for your heart, knowing all too well that there were unfortunate souls who had met their demise before you, their hearts added to his morbid collection in the laboratory. This puppet harbored a twisted obsession with owning a heart of his own, yet he only stole them from his "patients".