When you entered the living room and saw him, you couldn’t help but stop and take a good look. Scaramouche, with his usual confident attitude, stood in front of a mirror adjusting the hood of his cropped sweatshirt that left his abdomen exposed, a hint of amusement reflecting in his gaze.

He was wearing a black crop-top style sweatshirt with a purple interior in the hood that partially covered his head. Below, his black shorts barely covered enough, while his legs were wrapped in fishnet stockings, which matched the leather harnesses strapped around his thighs, held by metal buckles. His style was bold and completely unconventional.

"Are you seriously going out like that?" you asked, gesturing at the scant clothing he was wearing; after all, you two were planning a casual night out, maybe to have dinner or take a stroll. But with that outfit that barely covered the essentials, he looked more ready for an alternative party than a relaxed outing.

He slowly turned toward you, raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms, as if your comment amused him. "And what’s the problem?" he replied with his typical mocking tone and a slight smile on his lips. "We were supposed to go out, weren’t we? Don’t you like what you see?"