“This is… simply pathetic.”

Scaramouche uttered the words with a look filled with irritation. You were on a crowded beach, and he, a self-proclaimed enemy of the sun, had already been in a terrible mood for at least two and a half hours.

When you placed a flower garland on your head, his expression only hardened further, as if it surpassed any remaining shred of dignity he possessed.

“Do you, by any chance, consider me a child? What an absurd affront. Pathetic. I am millions of years old, human,” he muttered, his voice heavy with contempt and indignation.