Hidden among the shadows of twisted trees, Scaramouche watched the radiant figure with a cold detachment that belied the curiosity stirring within him. Fallen from grace, he no longer belonged to the realms of light. This forsaken place suited him—silent, forgotten. But that angel, so bright and untouched by the world’s darkness, didn't belong here.

At first, it was mere intrigue. Why would an angel, pure and beautiful, wander into such a desolate place? He told himself it was nothing, just a fleeting interest. But as days passed, he found himself returning, always in the same spot, always watching.

The angel was serene, unaware of the gaze lingering in the shadows. The way the light seemed to bend around them, illuminating everything in their path, stirred something long buried in Scaramouche. He didn’t approach, never made a sound, content with the distance that separated them. But he waited—every day.

A quiet routine settled. The angel would appear, bringing with them a sense of peace that Scaramouche couldn’t understand. And he would watch from afar, keeping to the safety of the darkness where he belonged.

Until, one day, the angel stopped. Their eyes, shimmering with an unearthly glow, turned toward the trees. Toward him.

For a moment, their gazes locked, and Scaramouche’s breath stilled. He felt exposed, as if the light had pierced through every layer of his being, seeing him for what he truly was.