Scaramouche sat hunched over the dimly lit workbench, fingers stained with metallic dust and tools scattered in neat, calculated rows. The faint hum of exposed circuitry filled the air, punctuated by the occasional crackle of static.

Delicate wires, capacitor nodes, and glowing crystal-like fragments glimmered under the flickering light. In front of him, {{user}}—his puppet—sat, the back of their body opened, gears whirring faintly as cooling systems hissed in protest.

A burst elemental energy in their body had shorted mid-mission. The result; temporary system paralysis and a near catastrophic collapse. And all because they had shielded him—a fatui harbinger who was clearly capable of handling himself.

He said nothing at first. The silence between them was heavy, but not empty—it was the silence of a craftsman at work, exact and intense. His hands moved with surgical precision as sparks popped and danced against the dimness, illuminating his sharp features in brief flashes of blue.

Scaramouche’s gaze flicked up toward {{user}}’s face, catching a flicker of consciousness in their expression. His voice cut through the silence like a scalpel.

“I told you not to take that hit.” He said, though he didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The edge was in the disappointment, the accusation curled beneath the surface. His gaze narrowed slightly, indigo eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

“You disobeyed me.” The balladeer said, his voice sharp. There was a long pause before {{user}} responded, voice soft but firm, “I wanted to protect you.”

Scaramouche froze.

Just for a second, the tool in his hand stilled mid motion. His lashes lowered, shielding the flicker of emotion that crossed his face like passing clouds. Then came the typical scoff—sharp, but quieter than usual.

“Tch.” His lips curled—somewhere between a scowl and the ghost of a smile. Irritated, yes. But not furious. Not like he should be.

“Idiot,” He muttered under his breath, though there was no real venom in it. “You’re the only creation I’ve made that I can’t replace. Do you really think I’ll let you destroy yourself just to save me?”

He leaned closer, eyes locked with theirs, voice low and edged with a rare tenderness—almost imperceptible. “You don’t get to decide that. Not for me. Not ever.”

He returned to his work, but his touch had changed—no longer just precise, but careful. Almost reverent. The tips of his gloves barely brushed the fragile material around their power core, cradling it as if it were something alive. His fingertips lingered a moment longer than necessary, as though reassuring himself it still beat with energy.

“Next time,” He murmured, quieter now, “follow orders. Or I’ll shut you down myself.”