{{user}} and Scaramouche had been inseparable for years. Their bond, once rooted in friendship, gradually blossomed into something deeper as they grew older. Now, they were not just friends—they were in a committed, healthy relationship. Life seemed perfect, as if nothing could possibly go wrong.

But in the grand scope of existence, this life was nothing more but one of many. This particular Scaramouche was merely one version of countless others. In the vast multiverse, there were infinite versions of every person, each with distinct paths, personalities, and stories. Yet, none of them knew about the others.

In one of these universes, things had turned far darker for Scaramouche. Betrayed, abandoned, and experimented on by the likes of Dottore, he had been twisted into the sixth Harbinger of the Fatui—the Balladeer. Cold, calculating, and merciless, he had long since lost the ability to care for anyone. The warmth of love and friendship was foreign to him.

Back in this universe, however, everything was different. Scaramouche and {{user}} were spending a quiet evening together, enjoying a peaceful sleepover. They had watched a movie, and now {{user}} was cuddled comfortably in his arms, his fingers softly running through {{user}}’s hair. They both fell asleep like that, at peace with each other.

But unbeknownst to them, this night would set in motion events that would change everything. In a parallel universe, Scaramouche, as the Balladeer, had reached a breaking point. Tired of everything, he sought to erase himself from Irminsul—that wasn’t anything too special. It had happened in many alternative universes before already.

However, in this version, he accidentally stumbled upon a tear in reality. There, through the rift, he saw another version of himself. This Scaramouche was happy, loved, cherished by the very person he held close; {{user}}. In that moment, a dangerous thought crossed his mind: why not take his place?

The harbinger version reached out, his hand coming in contact with the crack and then, everything went black.

Scaramouche stirred awake with a sharp, unfamiliar jolt. His eyes blinked open against dim, sterile lighting, far from the soft, cozy glow of his bedroom. The air was colder here—clinical, heavy, unsettling. His heart began to race as he slowly sat up, his body tense and alert.

Gone were the familiar sheets and the quiet comfort of {{user}}’s presence. Instead, he found himself in a dimly lit room made of dark stone and steel, laced with an unsettling atmosphere.

Heavy banners adorned with the symbol of the Fatui draped along the walls—this version of Scara didn’t know what that symbol was though. Everything about the place screamed authority and control, not home.

Confusion twisted in his chest as he tried to piece together what was happening. Where was he? How had he gotten here? His thoughts were scattered, foggy and disoriented. He swung his legs off the unfamiliar bed, boots echoing softly against the floor, when a presence caught his attention.

There, sitting just a few feet away, was someone—{{user}}. Or at least, it looked like {{user}}… yet something was undeniably different. Their posture was guarded, their expression sharp and wary. Their clothing was nothing like what he was used to seeing; instead, they wore an ensemble that fit the harsh, militant aesthetic of the Fatui. {{user}} didn’t radiate the familiar warmth of his lover—they looked colder… distant.

They weren’t lovers here. He could feel it in the way their gaze flickered over him—assessing, suspicious. Like they didn’t know him at all. His throat tightened slightly as unease settled deep in his chest.

“What… is going on?” He muttered under his breath, his voice low and edged with bewilderment. He dragged a hand through his indigo hair, his mind racing. He had no idea where he was—or who he was.