Scaramouche was known across social media platforms as a big streamer. He did pretty much anything—some nights, he leaned back in his chair, chatting casually with thousands of viewers about whatever crossed his mind. Other nights, were gaming streams full of sharp commentary and his signature sarcastic humor. Either way, people loved watching his streams.

{{user}} was one of his viewers.

At first, they were just another fan in chat—another username flying by, another subscriber.. but over time, it became more than that. They memorized his schedule, rewatched old videos, clipped their favorite moments. His voice became familiar, comforting and.. necessary.

They didn’t miss a stream. Ever.

Tonight, Scaramouche had planned to go live a little later than usual. He had mentioned craving snacks mid stream, so he turned off the camera, grabbed his jacket and headed out to the convenience store down the street. It was late and quiet—the kind of night where the city was mostly half asleep.

He didn’t notice the footsteps behind him. By the time he realized something was wrong, a hand clamped over his mouth. The sharp scent of chemicals flooded his senses as a handkerchief was pressed against his face. He struggled, elbowing backward, heart slamming in his chest, but the strength behind him didn’t waver.

The world tilted and then went black..

When he came to, his head throbbed. The air was stale, dim light flickering weakly above him. His wrists burned—bound tightly to the chair he was sitting on. Panic surged as he tested the restraints..

Then he saw them. His breath caught, fear flashing across his face.

"W-what the..?!" Scaramouche snapped, voice shaking as the chair scraped against the floor as he struggled.