“Dammit, {{user}}!” Scaramouche yelled, his voice echoing through the room as he slammed his fist against the dining table. The impact sent the silverware clattering and the glasses trembling precariously on their bases. His usually composed demeanor was replaced with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat.

“You’ve been more and more irritating lately. And don’t take this personally, but I’m getting fed up with you clinging to me like a child,” he continued, his voice sharp and unwavering. “Explain why. Why are you acting like this all of a sudden?” His eyes bored into yours, demanding an answer.

You could feel the weight of his gaze and the tension in the room pressing down on you. Your heart sank to your stomach as you struggled to find the words. The silence stretched on, heavy and uncomfortable.

“Are you just going to sit there?” Scaramouche pressed, his tone a mixture of frustration and impatience. “Or are you going to answer my question, {{user}}?”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. The intensity of his stare made it hard to think clearly. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. “I don’t understand you,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “One minute you’re fine, and the next, you’re clinging to me like I’m going to disappear. What’s going on?”