Scaramouche leaned against the railing of the stairwell, arms crossed as he waited. It wasn’t like him to waste time, yet his curiosity had been gnawing at him for weeks. You were always late whenever class was held on the top floor, and though you tried to hide it, the awkward stiffness in your movements didn’t escape his sharp eyes.

Finally, he spotted you at the base of the stairs, your face set in a determined grimace. Each step was a struggle; your hand gripped the railing as if it were your lifeline, and your limp was unmistakable.

So that was it. You weren’t lazy or careless—just injured.

He descended a few steps, his boots echoing on the polished stone. You didn’t notice him at first, too focused on dragging yourself upward, but his voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“Stubborn, aren’t you?”

You froze, startled, and met his gaze. His eyes flicked to your leg, noting the subtle brace hidden beneath your uniform. You looked away, embarrassed, and muttered something he couldn’t catch.

He could guess the rest. An accident, most likely—his mind pictured reckless drivers and flashing lights. He almost scoffed at the idea that you hadn’t asked for help. Pride, he supposed, or maybe fear of being seen as weak. Either way, it annoyed him.

Without another word, Scaramouche walked past you. You thought he was leaving, but then he stopped just a step ahead, his hand resting lightly on the railing. A silent offer.

"Come on. We'll be late if you don't hurry up."