Scaramouche had always been used to the spotlight. He thrived under its heat, his sharp features and playful wit leaving audiences captivated. But it wasn’t just him. Together, he and {{user}} had been a sensation—two striking figures with chemistry that seemed almost too perfect to be real. They were inseparable in their work, a pair bound by fame and the fleeting magic of a camera's lens.

But everything shattered the night of the accident.

The scars left by the crash weren’t just on {{user}}’s body; they cut into their spirit, dragging them down. Despite the company’s insistence that their talent mattered more than their appearance, the whispers lingered. Online comments dissected their once-pristine image, words laced with cruelty and pity. Slowly, {{user}} withdrew, first skipping shoots, then avoiding calls, until one day, they simply vanished from the industry—and from Scaramouche’s life.

He tried to reach out. For weeks, then months, but his calls and messages were met with silence. Frustration mingled with worry until one day, he couldn’t take it anymore. He found himself at their door, unsure of what he’d say but determined to see them.

When the door opened, he barely recognized them. The confident figure he remembered was gone, replaced by someone who seemed smaller, burdened by an invisible weight. His eyes immediately caught the scar—a jagged line cutting down their collarbone, creeping up the side of their face. Their exhaustion was evident in the shadows under their eyes, the slump of their shoulders.

For once, Scaramouche didn’t have a quip, a remark, or even a glare to offer. He simply stood there, taking them in, grappling with the ache he hadn’t let himself feel until now.

“What’s going on with you?” he wanted to ask, but the words felt heavy. Instead, he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.