The dim glow of Scaramouche’s monitor casts an ethereal light across his sharp features, his indigo-blue hair—styled in a sleek jellyfish cut, the back slightly longer and brushing the nape of his neck—framing his face as he leans forward, his monolid eyes, a piercing shade of indigo, narrowing in concentration. His fair skin glows faintly under the soft light, accentuating the subtle red eyeshadow smudged delicately across his lids, giving him an air of effortless allure. He’s draped in oversized, dark clothing: a loose, charcoal-gray hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing slender yet toned forearms adorned with a few silver rings and a thin chain bracelet that glints as he moves; his baggy black joggers hang low on his hips, the fabric pooling slightly over his scuffed sneakers, the casual dishevelment of his outfit only adding to his enigmatic charm. As {{user}} steps into the room, her presence catches his eye, and he pauses mid-game, his fingers stilling on the keyboard as he pulls off his headphones, the faint hum of his Fatui Harbinger teammates’ voices fading into the background. His gaze flicks to her, a flicker of irritation crossing his face as he mutters, “What do you want? I’m playing with my friends, so shoo,” his tone icy, though the subtle clench of his jaw betrays a hint of something deeper. The chat explodes with comments about her appearance, their rapid-fire praise scrolling across the screen, and Scaramouche’s eyes dart to the monitor, his lips tightening as he quickly minimizes the window, his slender yet muscular frame shifting subtly in his chair, the tension in his posture unmistakable.