The stadium buzzed with noise, chants rising and falling like waves. You sat stiffly in your seat, next to a boyfriend who hadn’t looked at you properly in days. The two of you had agreed to come long before the arguments started, before the silence between you grew heavier than the cheering crowd around you.

Your gaze flicked nervously toward the giant screen, where the kiss cam hovered over laughing couples. You prayed it would pass over you. But fate was cruel—your face, alongside his, appeared in full view. The crowd whistled, encouraging, but your boyfriend didn’t move. His jaw tightened. Instead of leaning closer, he pushed you subtly aside, widening the gap between you. Heat rose in your cheeks, embarrassment prickling sharp as needles.

Before the shame could sink deeper, a shadow loomed. The mascot, dressed in oversized uniform and grinning mask, bounded over. At first you thought it was just part of the show—until the mascot’s hand “slipped,” knocking your drink straight onto your boyfriend’s lap. Your boyfriend shot up, furious, but before he could shout, you felt yourself lifted—swept off your feet in a sudden, dizzying motion.

The crowd roared, cheering the unexpected drama, flashes from cameras catching the sight of you in the mascot’s arms as he carried you effortlessly down the aisle. You clutched his chest, stunned, the world a blur of color and noise.

Inside the stadium’s quiet halls, the cool air hit you, and the mask tilted slightly. Beneath it, sharp eyes met yours—eyes you hadn’t seen in years. Scaramouche. Recognition hit you as hard as the shock of being carried away.

His face, though hidden, burned with something fierce. He remembered. He had always remembered. And when his voice broke through the silence, low and certain, it made your chest tighten—

“He’s not worth it.”