Scaramouche was crying bitterly, burying his face in his sweatshirt, soaked in sweat and the smell of cigarettes, to at least slightly stifle his desperate sobs and sobs. The smell of cigarettes, which permeated almost all of his clothes, did not want to be washed in any way, no matter how hard his foster mother tried, and with whatever means she washed. It was completely ingrained, and the only way out was to throw away all his old clothes and buy new ones.

The teenager did not remember the last time he cried, especially like this, sobbing, not finding any strength to calm down. It was like he should have realized that his parents were bad people, but since they had done so much work, couldn't they at least pretend that they cared? His biological parents struggled for a long time to be allowed to meet their son sometimes on neutral territory, and how did it end?..

His thin fingers touched the bruise on his face, and he shuddered with sobs again. They hadn't seen him for more than five years, while he was in the orphanage and in a new foster family, and this was their gift? Insults and a bruise? His father beat him allegedly for "inappropriate behavior", convinced that beatings were the only way to raise a "real" man, and his mother supported her husband and said that Scaramouche deserved it... They never change.