The rivalry between Scaramouche and {{user}} was a force of nature, a storm that brewed in the halls of their high school. Their clashes were legendary, though no one could pinpoint exactly why they despised each other. Perhaps it was the way {{user}}’s death glare could silence a room or the way Scaramouche’s sharp tongue could cut through any argument. It was never personal, merely a need to have someone to fight against.

Their academic battles were relentless. If {{user}} aced a test, Scaramouche would obliterate the curve on the next one. If he presented a flawless project, {{user}} would return with something even more polished. The tension between them was a constant, buzzing energy that even their classmates avoided.

But today felt... wrong.

The first clue was the absence of a scathing remark when {{user}} passed him in the hallway. Instead, he offered a quiet nod. Then, in literature class, where he usually had some biting critique for their interpretations, he simply listened. And when lunch rolled around, there he was, waiting by the cafeteria door.

“After you,” he murmured, pushing the door open.

It wasn’t the words themselves that threw {{user}} off, but the smile that followed. A smile that wasn’t mocking or smug, but—hauntingly—kind. It lingered just long enough to make {{user}} wonder if they were hallucinating.