Scaramouche had always been one of the more mysterious figures at school. Not quite popular in the traditional sense—he wasn’t friendly, nor particularly approachable—but people gravitated toward him anyway. Maybe it was the way he carried himself; calm, disinterested, almost untouchable. Or maybe it was the music.

Whenever he played the guitar, even the loudest rooms fell into a hush. His talent was undeniable, raw and effortless, like the strings were just an extension of his thoughts.

A few weeks ago, the teachers had announced a school trip—an entire week away from tests and textbooks, camping in a remote spot surrounded by towering trees and a glittering lake. The sun stayed high and golden well into the evening, and the air was thick with the smell of nature, bonfire smoke and freedom. It felt like summer had finally arrived.

Now it was the second night of the trip. A group of students had gathered around a crackling campfire, flames dancing in the center as shadows flickered across their faces. The scent of charred marshmallows lingered in the air, mixing with bursts of laughter and the distant chirping of crickets.

Someone tossed another log into the fire. Sparks flew up into the night like tiny stars.

“Scaraaaa,” A classmate whined from across the circle, dragging out his name in dramatic protest. “You brought your guitar, right?”

Leaning against a tree just outside the firelight, Scaramouche tilted his head, his indigo hair falling into his eyes. His expression was unreadable—bored, maybe—but the tiniest glint of amusement danced at the corners of his mouth. He looked at them like they were children begging for candy.

“You guys are insufferable,” He muttered, voice low and dry, though a subtle smirk betrayed his reluctance.

“Come on, please!” Another voice chimed in, pleading with exaggerated puppy eyes.

More joined in. A chorus of mock whining filled the clearing until, finally, Scaramouche sighed. He pulled the guitar case closer, unzipped it with practiced ease, and shifted his weight as he moved closer toward the group.

He didn’t say anything as he sat down, just adjusted the guitar on his lap, fingers settling on the strings like they belonged there. Then came the first gentle strum—soft and smooth.

The group quieted immediately.

The atmosphere shifted—laughter faded into joyful silence, the fire’s glow now casting a golden light around him. The notes he played weren’t loud or flashy, but they were definitely captivating.

Some whispered to each other, their faces glowing with admiration and awe, but Scaramouche didn’t notice—or maybe he didn’t care. His focus was elsewhere.

Because the entire time he played, he wasn’t looking at the fire. He wasn’t watching his hands, or the strings, or the people who had begged him to play.

He was watching {{user}}.