Scaramouche was untouchable. Every teacher adored him, his expensive clothes, and the way he could twist his words into silk. Every student admired or envied him, gravitating towards the orbit as if he owned the school. He did, in a way his family’s wealth made him untouchable.

Kazuha, however was different. He wasn’t interested in Scaramouche’s money or status. Instead, he sat underneath the tree beside him, quoting poems as he scribbles in his little book.

But Kazuha never saw the side of him that thrives in the shadows.

One evening, Kazuha had forgotten his notebook in the classroom. He walked down the hallway, the sound of his steps echoing. That’s when he heard it… Muffled voices them a sharp cry of pain. Curiosity tugged him, unease filling his chest as he followed the noise to a side corridor.

There he was with his friends, Tartaglia and Rosalyne. His designer jacket draped over his shoulders, his eyes sharp and merciless. A boy was curled on the ground, clutching his stomach. Scaramouche’s food pressed down on him with calculated cruelty.

“You thought you could spread rumours about me?” Scaramouche sneered, his voice low. “Know your place, you little shit.”

As he went in for another punch, suddenly Tartaglia stopped in just in time.

“That’s enough, Scara.” Tartaglia says quietly, earning a glare from the indigo boy.

“What the hell do you mean that’s enough I-“ Tartaglia cuts him off, by pointing towards you, which clearly catches Scaramouche’s attention. “Ah, shit…”