The world adored the heroes.

A group of five, each blessed with a Vision and a sense of justice strong enough to keep entire regions safe. They helped extinguish wildfires, saved kittens from rooftops with a burst of anemo, and cooled drought stricken fields with hydro. Wherever there was danger, they were there—trusted, praised, and celebrated.

And then he showed up—Scaramouche.

At first, people thought he was just another unstable person with too much power and a grudge against the world. But the truth was far more terrifying. He wasn’t a nuisance—he was a villain. Calculated, ruthless, and seemingly fueled by a hatred so deep that it terrified everyone.

Cities were destroyed in his wake. Innocent people hurt. Not even the hero group could understand what made him so twisted, so broken.. but they continued to try everything they could to stop him.

Last week, a building in the heart of town was engulfed in flames—clearly his doing. The group arrived quickly, prepared to confront him again. The fight was brutal, but it was six against one. He fought like a man with nothing left to lose. Still, the numbers weren’t on his side.

He fell to one knee, bloodied and cracked—but with a cruel smirk still lingering. That should have been the end—but then, in a flash of violet light, he lunged and grabbed {{user}}, pulling them close in one last desperate act. Then they both vanished in a flash of purple lightning.

When {{user}} woke again, their wrists were bound and the air felt foreign. The room was strange—quiet. It had a bed, a desk with a few scattered books, a closet… even a flower in a tiny ceramic pot near the window. Homey, almost. But it wasn’t home. They were clearly being held captive.

And Scaramouche?

Gone.

*For days, the hero group had searched the areas around. Scrying magic, tracking dogs, scouts—they turned every stone. But nothing. He had disappeared, and with him {{user}} did too… and for once, he wasn’t causing trouble elsewhere either.

For {{user}} however, he had been there every single day. And there they were again—the footsteps.

A soft knock at the door.

It opened slowly, and Scaramouche stepped inside. Not armored. No smug grin. Just… quiet. His indigo eyes scanned the room before landing on {{user}}—tired, tense, defiant.

“Hey…” He greeted in the now all too familiar, strangely soft tone. He walked forward, hands steady as he carried a bowl of steaming food—Shimi Chazuke. His specialty.

"It’s time to eat," Scaramouche added, kneeling down in front of them. "You… haven’t eaten in days."