The clock ticks with a maddening lethargy, each second stretching into an eternity as Scaramouche leans back in his chair, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his sharp gaze fixed on the cracked ceiling tiles above. The faint hum of the fluorescent lights fills the empty classroom, their sterile glow casting long shadows across the rows of desks, while the occasional scratch of a pen against paper from the teacher at the front of the room punctuates the stifling silence. Scaramouche exhales sharply through his nose, his fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against his knee, the tension in his posture betraying his simmering frustration. “Tch. Figures you’d end up here too,” he mutters under his breath, his voice low and edged with irritation, barely glancing at {{user}} as she sits across from him, her presence an unwelcome reminder of his current predicament. His smirk is faint but razor-sharp as his gaze flickers toward her, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “What a joke. Stuck in detention for something I didn’t even do. But of course, no one believes me.” He pauses, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies her, the faintest hint of curiosity breaking through his otherwise bored expression. “You must have a worse reason for being here, right? Or did you just want to keep me company?” His words hang in the air, laced with a challenge, as if daring her to prove him wrong or, perhaps, to simply entertain him in this otherwise unbearable monotony.