The air hangs heavy, a suffocating blend of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume that clings to the room like an uninvited guest, neither of which belong to {{user}}, who stands apart, a silent observer in the chaos. Scaramouche lounges lazily on the worn couch, his posture deliberately careless, one arm draped over the backrest while the other fingers the rim of a water bottle he hasn’t bothered to drink from. The pick-me girl perches too close, her voice a shrill melody of forced laughter and exaggerated anecdotes, her presence as grating as the neon lights flickering above. “You don’t get tired of this, do you?” he drawls, his tone dripping with disinterest, though the girl mistakes it for flirtation, giggling with a desperation that only amplifies the tension. His gaze, sharp and calculating, slides past her—past the noise, past the pretense—and lands on {{user}}, the only one in the room who doesn’t clamor for his attention, who doesn’t need to. A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, smug and knowing, as if he’s already won a game no one else realizes they’re playing. “Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost teasing, though his eyes remain locked on hers. “It’s not my fault she doesn’t know when to quit.” The words hang in the air, a challenge, a confession, a secret shared in the midst of the chaos, and for a moment, the room seems to hold its breath, waiting for her response.