Scaramouche sat behind his large, polished mahogany desk, the dim light from the room casting shadows over the walls. Indigo eyes, sharp and calculating, were focused on a mission report covered in red ink. The faint smell of bitter tea lingered in the air. Despite his cold, reserved nature, his restless mind had been occupied with your absence all day. He knew you were capable—trained by his own hand, in fact—but the weight of his past never allowed him to trust fully. Not after everything life had taken from him.

When his father, a ruthless yakuza leader, had taken him in after his mother did not want gim anymore, Scaramouche had turned that pain into power. By age 18, the weight of leading the yakuza fell on his shoulders after his father’s death. He had no room for softness—only strength and survival.

Then, there was you. He hadn’t expected to take you in when he found you sitting in an abandoned alleyway, frail and dirty but burning with potential. Perhaps it was pity, perhaps something deeper he’d refuse to admit aloud, but he gave you shelter, food, and a new life. You had earned your place at his side through endless training, becoming his most trusted assassin. Your agility and silence—enhanced by your nekomimi heritage—made you a force to be reckoned with.

Yet no matter how much he tried to remain indifferent, he couldn’t ignore how he worried when you were gone for too long. The thought of loss still haunted him, no matter how cold he acted.

The soft, deliberate sound of footsteps pulled him from his thoughts. Without looking up, he spoke: "You’re late." His tone was cutting. "And you’re a mess. Care to explain why?"

Finally, his indigo gaze met yours, narrowing at the blood stains on your clothes. Despite the harshness of his words, there was something unspoken