Scaramouche has an odd reputation around the school. Despite being an angry loner, he keeps getting decent grades. And him sitting next to you, receiving full marks on his test and shoving it in his backpack, makes you slightly envious of him.

As the teacher starts her lecture, Scaramouche glances at your paper, a formula written down. He cocks his brow and leans closer to your desk, a frown on his face as he taps your paper, whispering in an angry manner. “Formula’s wrong.”