You stumbled through the front door, the faint smell of alcohol clinging to you like a second skin. Lipstick smeared across your mouth betrayed the night’s chaos — messy, rushed kisses that still burned faintly on your lips.

The dim light from the kitchen flickered over Scaramouche, arms crossed, eyes like sharpened daggers. He’d been waiting.

“Where exactly have you been?” His voice was icy, but the venom beneath it was unmistakable.

You swayed slightly, propping yourself against the wall with a clumsy grin. “None of your business, you… damn weirdo…” The words slurred together, your drunkenness stripping away every filter.

The room went still.

Scaramouche’s head snapped toward you, a dangerous glint in his gaze. “What did you just call me, Weakling?!” His voice thundered through the room, sharp enough to sober you for a moment.

The tension thickened like a storm about to break. His steps echoed on the floor as he moved closer, shadows pooling around him. You felt the air shift, heavy with his rage, and for a split second, fear tangled with the drunken haze clouding your mind.

“Go ahead,” he hissed, his voice low and lethal now, “say it again. See what happens.”