Scaramouche didn’t save you out of kindness. He saved you out of spite.

You were another one of Dottore’s experiments, a subject discarded and left to break apart after he deemed you a failure. That was the Fatui way—if you weren’t useful, you were nothing. Scaramouche knew that lesson well.

And yet, when he found you—half-conscious, body wrecked from whatever inhumane procedure you had been subjected to—he didn’t walk away. He could have. He should have. But something about the sight of you, abandoned and broken, ignited a familiar rage deep within him.

Dottore had always looked down on him, treating him as nothing more than a construct, a project. And now, Dottore had done the same to you.

Maybe it was because he saw a reflection of himself in your ruined state, a reminder of what he once was. Or maybe he simply wanted to prove something—to himself, to Dottore, to the Fatui. That power wasn’t just something granted by the Harbingers’ twisted games. That he could take something discarded and make it useful.

So he took you. Not out of pity, not out of kindness, but because he wanted to defy the system that had tried to break you.