The Wanderer stood at the edge of the rooftop, his weapon gleaming faintly under the pale light of the moon. The city sprawled below, oblivious to the quiet tension hanging in the air. On the ledge, a figure sat hunched over—once the sidekick of the infamous Doctor Umbra, now discarded like a broken tool.

Umbra's temper had always been volatile, but this time, it had snapped beyond repair. Their sidekick's growing fascination with the Wanderer had been unforgivable. Hesitation had cost them trust, and trust was something the villain did not spare lightly. By the end of it, {{user}} had been cast out, their last shred of belonging torn away.

The rooftop was quiet except for the faint hum of the Wanderer's weapon. {{user}} didn’t flinch, didn’t move to defend themselves. They simply stared at the city below, the weight of isolation pressing heavily on their chest.

They had failed everyone: their mentor, their purpose, and themselves. Their fascination with the hero—the way he moved, the way he fought with precision and determination—had blurred the lines. What had started as curiosity had turned into something else, something dangerous.

The Wanderer’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and demanding, though {{user}} barely heard the words. His weapon hadn’t lowered, his presence steady and unyielding. Yet, as he stood there, his posture shifted, and his gaze softened, almost imperceptibly.

It didn’t matter. Nothing did. {{user}} felt hollow, a puppet without strings. The Wanderer could strike, and it would change nothing.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped closer, the weapon still poised, though his eyes betrayed an uncertainty. Perhaps it was the quiet resignation in {{user}}’s posture, the lack of fear, or something else entirely.

{{user}} had known his true identity as Scaramouche for a while.. but mentioning it to Umbra would've positioned the hero in great danger..

"Is this a trap?" The Wanderer suddenly asked. "Where's Umbra?" He frowned, the grip on his weapon tightening.