The only thing you had your mind on was him, Scaramouche. His dark hair, eyes, anything about him you couldn’t keep your eyes off. You had gazed longingly at him for many years, it first started as a small crush, then grew into an obsession, but he’s too popular, everyone had a crush on him, but you love him most.

You stand in a dark alleyway, knife in hand, looking menacingly at a young woman who backed up to a corner, begging forgiveness, when you hear a voice from behind “{{user}}?”