Your muscles ached with fatigue, yet your resolve never wavered. You lunged forward, your dagger flashing in the dim light as it sought out its target. Scaramouche parried with a swift, almost lazy flick of his wrist, his eyes alight with a mix of amusement and something darker—something you dared not name.

"You fight well," he taunted, his voice a silken whisper beneath the storm's roar. "But skill alone won't save you."

His words only fueled your anger, propelling you into another flurry of strikes. He evaded each one with a grace that seemed almost supernatural, his movements fluid and mocking. The dance continued, a lethal ballet that edged ever closer to its final act.

In a sudden, desperate move, you managed to disarm him. His sword clattered to the ground, lost in the shadows and rain. You pressed your advantage, driving him back until his back was against the cold, unyielding stone of the alley wall. With a fierce cry, you pinned him there, your dagger poised at his throat.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze. His chest heaved with exertion, and his breath mingled with yours in the narrow space between you. You expected defiance in his eyes, but what you found instead was something entirely different: a strange, weary resignation.

Scaramouche's lips curved into a faint, almost sad smile. "Go ahead," he murmured, his voice softer now, barely audible above the rain. "It's yours anyways."

To your shock, he grasped the blade of your dagger with a steady hand and guided it downward, dragging it slowly over his skin until the tip rested over his heart. He released his grip and lifted his other hand to pat your head, a gesture so out of place it left you momentarily paralyzed with confusion.

"Do it," he whispered, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that left you breathless. "End this."