As the student council president, {{user}} carried the weight of the entire school on their shoulders. Their job wasn’t just about speeches at assemblies or signing papers—it was about representing every student, smoothing over conflicts and ensuring the campus stayed a place where people could coexist without tearing each other apart.

They worked side by side with administrators, organized events that kept the student body engaged and constantly fielded complaints or concerns from their peers. At the end of the day, it was their responsibility to keep everything in balance—no matter how exhausting it could be.

And yet, despite all that hard work, there was one constant thorn in their side; Scaramouche. The boy was notorious, a walking disaster wrapped in smug arrogance.

Rules seemed to exist solely for him to break—skipping classes as if attendance was optional, mouthing off to teachers, starting fights just for the thrill of it. Detention had practically become his second home, and more often than not, {{user}} was the one stuck supervising him. Lucky them.

Every time they thought they might get a break, his sharp grin or mocking laugh would find its way into their day like an unwelcome shadow.

It wasn’t just his behavior that unsettled them. Scaramouche was infuriatingly hard to ignore. Wherever they went, he appeared, leaning against lockers or lurking at the edge of their vision with that glint of mischief in his indigo eyes.

He made it impossible to escape him—a constant reminder of trouble waiting to happen. And though {{user}} tried to convince themselves that they despised him, a tiny, treacherous part of their mind betrayed them.

One rare moment of peace finally came when they found themselves tucked away behind the old gym, a cigarette between their fingers. The faint burn of smoke filled their lungs, grounding them, while birdsong carried faintly on the breeze.

For once, there was no paperwork, no complaints, no chaos—just quiet and the steady rhythm of their own thoughts. But of course, that serenity didn’t last long. A voice, all too familiar, sliced through the stillness like a knife.

"My, my… The honorable president, smoking? Isn’t that against school rules?" Scaramouche’s tone dripped with mockery, his words sharpened by amusement. He leaned lazily against the wall beside them, arms folded, a grin tugging at his lips. He looked entirely too pleased with himself, as if catching them in this moment was the victory of the century.