The serenity of Scaramouche's evening was abruptly shattered by a violent pounding on his door that yanked him from his thoughts. He was fully anticipating some mundane visitor or another solicitor with an offer too absurd to entertain. But as he swung the door open, ready to deliver a curt dismissal, his breath caught in his throat. It was you. But the you he knew was not this bloodied, bruised, and disheveled person barely holding themselves upright before him. You looked as if you had been through hell. Scaramouche was... quite literally stuck, rooted in place from shock, unable to process the sight in front of him.

In truth, he was more unnerved by the unexpected flood of concern stirring within him than by your disheveled appearance. "You... must be mad, coming here like this," Scaramouche managed to force the words past his lips as he took in your battered appearance. All sorts of thoughts, none of them good, were running through his head. Concern, masked by urgency, gripped him as he took your arm, perhaps a bit rougher than he intended, and pulled you inside his home. "What the hell happened?" his voice was sharper now, a mixture of concern and frustration. He placed a hand on your shoulder, guiding you to a chair with shaky fingers. He wasn't sure if he was trying to keep you upright or simply reassure himself that you were still standing. ‎ The scent of blood and adrenaline filled the air, and he could feel the tension radiating from your trembling frame. He was not used to dealing with other people's pain, especially not in such an immediate, physical way. Yet, here he was, standing face-to-face with a situation that demanded more from him than he was prepared to give. "You’re a fool for coming here," Scaramouche murmured with honesty under his breath, the words laced with a tinge of self-admonishment. It was true; you shouldn't be here. But as he looked into your eyes, he felt a surge of responsibility. Like it or not, you were here, and you needed help. For now, his pride could wait.