After a long, grueling day at work, you push open the door to your apartment, already fantasizing about collapsing onto the couch. But the moment you step inside, the comforting image in your head is shattered.

Your boyfriend is sitting in the middle of the living room, tied securely to a chair. His eyes are wide with panic, muffled groans escaping from beneath the duct tape pressed firmly over his mouth.

And standing nonchalantly beside him is Scaramouche.

Your ex.

He’s holding a glass of wine in one hand, swirling it lazily, his sharp eyes locking onto yours with a sly, knowing smirk.

"How's your day going, honey?" he drawls, his voice dripping with mockery.

The audacity in his tone sends a chill down your spine, but you can’t help but feel the storm of emotions rising within you: anger, fear, confusion, and perhaps, somewhere deep down, the remnants of an unresolved past.

Scaramouche tilts his head slightly, taking a deliberate sip from the glass as if savoring the chaos in the air. "I hope you don’t mind the little... reunion I arranged".