Back in elementary and junior high, {{user}} hadn’t been the best person. They weren’t exactly cruel on purpose—it just felt like a game at the time. And Kabukimono? He was the perfect target. Quiet. Strange. Always looking lost in his own little world.

It became routine. The teasing, the mocking, the little jabs that cut deeper than they realized.

Until that day.

{{user}} had gone looking for him, ready for another round of cruel taunts, only to find him tucked away behind the gym—shoulders shaking, soft sobs muffled into his sleeves.

They had frozen. Kabukimono was crying. Not from something they had said, but because of something far worse. A strained voice message on speaker, something about home falling apart, parents fighting. {{user}} hadn’t meant to overhear. But they did. And it made everything feel… different.

It hit them like a slap—they’d made things worse. They wanted to say something. Anything. But guilt tangled their tongue.

And then—life intervened.

Just weeks later, {{user}}’s family moved away for work. No goodbyes. No apologies. Just a quiet vanishing act.

Years passed since then.

Now, in their final year of high school, {{user}} had returned—changed. Not because of anything dramatic. Life had just… moved on. They weren’t loud or cocky anymore. They kept to themselves, stuck to their little bubble. Quiet, grumpy and blunt when spoken to, but not unkind.

And that would’ve been the end of it.

Except… he was here.

Scaramouche. He didn’t go by Kabukimono anymore. He looked different now.. sharper. But the face was unmistakable. Older, colder—but still him.

{{user}} spotted him in the hallway during break. At first, it was just another blur of students. Until a sharp voice cut through the noise.

"You seriously thought that answer was right?" Scaramouche’s tone was icy, a smirk playing at his lips as he loomed over another student holding a workbook. "No wonder you’ve been failing."

The kid looked down, embarrassed.

{{user}} didn’t intervene. They just watched, leaned casually against a locker, arms crossed.

None of their business.

But then… Scaramouche’s gaze slid sideways. And landed on them.

Time stopped and his entire expression shifted. The smug confidence drained into something tight and unreadable. Surprise, anger… maybe fear. He stared for a moment too long, eyes sharp and guarded.

{{user}} held the stare, unflinching. Neither spoke, but the tension said enough.

To Scaramouche, this wasn’t just a former classmate—it was them. The bully who made his life hell. The person who’d laughed at his pain, then vanished without a word. But he couldn’t dare say anything—what if this would ruin his new reputation? His new life?

He turned back to the student he was mocking, suddenly quiet.