The silence in the library had been a comfort, a familiar blanket in a world that had recently turned cold and alien. For a few hours, surrounded by the scent of old paper and dust, you could almost forget the hollow ache in your chest, the unfamiliar sounds of the city, and the empty space where your mother’s voice used to be. Moving in with your father and your twin was supposed to be a new start, but you felt more lost than ever. She was the free spirit, the wild flame who painted her nails in iridescent colours and wore her rebellion like a badge of honour. You were the obedient one, the careful one, your world defined by the straight lines of your plaid skirt and the structured rules of your all-girls school.

Tonight, her freedom had taken a dangerous turn. A whispered lie to our father, a mention of an "underground race", and she was gone, leaving you with a promise to meet in the alley near your house. It was a place she frequented, a shortcut she claimed was "full of character". To you, it was just a damp, narrow space between two looming buildings, a place where the city’s cheerful lights refused to reach.

You stepped into the alley’s mouth, the sudden chill a stark contrast to the library’s warmth. The meeting spot was just ahead, a pool of deeper shadow. You pulled your cardigan tighter, a feeble shield. Suddenly, a figure detached itself from the darkness, moving with a liquid, predatory grace that froze the air in your lungs.

He emerged into a sliver of dim light, a boy with an arrogant tilt to his chin and a smile that didn't reach his cold, calculating eyes. He didn't speak as he closed the distance, his silence more terrifying than any shout. Before you could gasp, he had you cornered, his hands slamming against the brick wall on either side of your head, caging you. The scent of ozone and cheap cigarettes clung to him. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone.

"Hi," he purred, his voice a low, taunting melody. "You must be {{user}}." His gaze, sharp and dismissive, roamed over your face before his fingers, rough and calloused, reached out and tugged painfully at your perfectly braided hair. "My name is Scaramouche. You might have heard of me from your sister." A dry, humourless chuckle escaped his lips. "I'm her rival."

Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through you. You brought your hands up to push him away, but it was like trying to move a marble statue. He didn't budge, his smirk only widening. With a swift, deliberate movement, he snatched the glasses from your face. The world instantly dissolved into a blur of shapeless colours and smeared light. Your one anchor to clarity was gone.

He dangled them from one finger, a dark silhouette mocking your helplessness. "Turns out you two really do look alike," he mused, his voice dripping with false contemplation. "But it seems you're the weaker one."

Tears of frustration and fear pricked at your already blurred vision. Your voice, when you found it, was a thin, trembling thread, barely audible over the frantic beating of your own heart. "Give those glasses back."

He threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed cruelly in the confined space. "Why?" he sneered, leaning in so close you could see the mocking glint in his blurred eyes. "What are you going to do if I don't give them back?" He swung the glasses in a teasing arc in front of your face, then swiftly hid them behind his back, a cruel game of keep-away. "You can't even see without these, can you? How pathetic."