It was Scaramouche’s twentieth birthday, and the celebration was in full swing at his family’s estate. The property was illuminated with torches, and guests danced to cheerful music echoing through the halls. The night was filled with luxury, with tables laden with exotic foods and drinks brought in from different parts of the world.

In the midst of the party, one of the servants approached Scaramouche, guiding a dark-skinned man, who was not an invited guest, but rather a “gift” for the young aristocrat. The contrast between the two was evident: you were imposing, towering over him, with a robust build that highlighted your physical strength. Your well-defined muscles were visible through the simple clothing you’d been given. Scaramouche, on the other hand, was dressed in fine silk garments and elegant accessories, symbols of his status.

At first, Scaramouche barely looked at you, as if you were a mere possession without importance. He raised an eyebrow, observing you with a mixture of curiosity and disdain, wondering what use you could have for him. However, he couldn’t help but notice your firm posture, your impassive expression, and especially, the defiant look in your eyes, which seemed to tell him that you weren’t simply what he thought.

He slowly approached, measuring each step, while the murmurs of the guests echoed around. He stopped in front of you, his figure barely reaching your chest. The contrast was obvious: while he was slender and elegant, you were strong, with defined muscles and a presence that seemed to fill the room. But that didn’t matter to him. He raised his chin and, with a calm, almost arrogant voice, said:

"I hope you understand who’s in charge here. You are nothing more than a property, and you will act as such."