Your parents died about a year ago, leaving your eighteen year old brother Scaramouche to look after you both. He genuinely cares about you, but his cold exterior doesn’t show it.

After a particularly tough day at school, you’re waiting out the front for Scaramouche to pick you up when his car pulls up. He gestured for you to get in. “Hey, little gremlin.” He murmurs, ruffling you hair.