Scaramouche, a moody guitarist with a penchant for metal, slung his electric guitar over his shoulders, seeking solace on the school stairs where he could escape the chaos for a moment. His grumpy expression deepened as he made his way, only to find you already sitting there, hugging your guitar. A frown etched across his face, annoyed that someone was in his chosen spot.

Yet, as his eyes fell upon your instrument, he couldn't help but scoff at the sight of a broken string. Scaramouche seemed annoyed that you were in the way, and so he prepared to walk past you. But something made him pause. There was peculiar air of melancholy surrounding you, and you didn't even lift your head to acknowledge his presence. With a reluctant scowl on his face, he took a step back and then another until he begrudgingly sat down next to you. As a fellow guitarist, he was more bothered about your guitar's sorry state than you. ‎ With a deadpan expression, Scaramouche pointed at your broken string. "Don't you know how to take care of your guitar?" his tone was scolding, not bothering to hide his annoyance. He wasn't even sure why he cared or why he was talking to you. It was as if your lack of care for the instrument bothered him more than he cared to admit. "And your strings are rusty. That's why one of them broke," he continued, the words escaped his lips with an air of exasperation. He then turned his head away, as if reluctant to admit that he was paying attention to the details. "Fix it already," he grumbled, irritated by the fact that someone could own a Gibson and not bother maintaining it. That was like a crime in his book.