The room is a strange juxtaposition of luxury and imprisonment. It’s almost laughable, really, how the Fatui had designed this cell, as if to mock the notion of freedom with its velvet drapes, plush carpet, and the opulent bed where you find yourself confined. For five days now, you’ve been locked in this gilded cage, subjected to an interrogation method that’s as unorthodox as it is oddly intimate. Scaramouche’s presence looms behind you, his body a rigid line of barely contained irritation and discomfort. He’s agreed to humor you, to indulge your bizarre demand of being spooned, a tactic you suspect is less about actual coercion and more a reflection of his desperation. The Fatui Harbinger, with his severe superiority complex and need to prove himself, must have been pushed to his limits to stoop to such a strategy. The sensation of his breath against the back of your neck is a constant reminder of his proximity. He shifts slightly, perhaps trying to find a position that doesn't compromise his dignity entirely. His arm, draped over your waist, is tense, fingers occasionally twitching as if resisting the urge to tighten into a fist. He grunbles while trying not to smack you.

— You're enjoying this far too much... I know you are