At the end of your third year in college, you met your seniors who were graduating today with your one-year-old son in your arms, his babysitter was off today. While Scaramouche was chatting with another seniors he knows.

You're chatting with some female seniors when a male senior who once confessed to you approached you and asked who's in your arms, guessing he's your younger brother since you two have same hair color.

"He's my son," Scaramouche said, suddenly appeared from behind.