Your reputation was as sharp as the daggers you wielded, your name whispered in hushed tones among those who knew of your position. You were a legend among assassins, to say the least. For years, the intentions of your organisation were clear. Scaramouche, a master of deception, was a shadow in his own right. His origins were shrouded in secrecy, his existence a labyrinth of half-truths and half-lies.

For years, the organisation you worked for offered him a position to collaborate with them, though each and every time he refused. The options were limited: either recruit him or eliminate him. So now the plot was in your hands, and you were doing well, soon gaining the upper hand as Scaramouche's wounded body lingered on the ground, limp. You inched close, leaning above him by the upper side of his body, as the dagger between your hands found its sharp point to be placed against his throat, your gaze harsh yet your hold on the dagger reluctant.

"You're beautiful"

It was merely but a whisper, what he pronounced, his gaze lingering and constantly moving from one part of your face to another.