{{user}} knew they weren’t supposed to fall for him. No sane person ever would. Scaramouche wasn’t just dangerous—he embodied danger. The sixth harbinger of the Fatui, feared across nations, whispered about like a shadow that slit throats.

Loving someone like him was like willingly stepping into a minefield. Yet {{user}} had walked straight into the center of it. Perhaps love does indeed make you blind.

They were knee deep in blood and secrets now—his secrets, their choices. Every step closer to him came with another whispered warning, another body on the ground, another reminder that Scaramouche’s world wasn’t meant for people like them.

And still, they stayed.

Tonight proved why they should’ve left long ago.

The attack happened so fast. One moment, {{user}} was walking home under the soft glow of lantern light; the next, a rough hand shoved them into an alleyway. The man’s breath reeked, his threats sharper than the dagger he pressed to their throat. His words were low, taunting, promising harm.

Fear clawed up their spine and their voice trembled as they fumbled for the only name they could think of—his.

By the time {{user}} blinked, the fight was already over. The man lay collapsed at their feet, eyes empty, lifeless. Scaramouche stood over him, blade dripping crimson, expression as still as moonlight on glass.

He wiped his weapon clean with steady hands, no hesitation, no remorse. To him, this wasn’t cruelty—it was necessity. Protection for the one he cherished. A promise he never said aloud but always held.

{{user}} couldn’t even form words. The shock, the relief, the faint ache of guilt tangled inside their chest.

Scaramouche finally looked at them. Not with softness—he didn’t do softness—but with something sharper. Concern disguised as irritation.

"Next time, don’t wait to call for me." He said, his voice calm, almost bored, but the undertone was unmistakable. "I don’t want you to get hurt."

He stepped closer, fingers brushing briefly against their arm—checking, confirming they were unharmed.

He’d killed for them again.