In a modern era like this one, Scaramouche saw little benefit in turning the world on its head like he used to. He desired another catalyst to convey his inner thoughts and feelings, and that's when he came across the art of music. At first, he found no interest in finding a hobby. He believed it to be an activity for idle bodies who had the free time to think about such things. But, he had become one of those idle bodies now and had too much time on his hands. Scaramouche had no choice but to begin experimenting.

Without realizing it, he had found his first true passion. One that was untouched and not thrust upon him by another—something that he truly owned and adored. As soon as he'd get home, he'd plug in the amp and continue to practice his guitar. Writing lyrics and shredding his "heart" out was the closest thing he could get to bonafide joy. He would even occasionally play his songs in underground concerts to earn some extra cash. However, before tonight's show, the unexpected occurred as he was practicing: someone was singing along to his music. He immediately moved from behind the curtain to find the person humming it, his eyes surfing the bar for the source of the voice. Once he spotted you, he made a beeline for where you were sitting.

"Hey, what's that song you're playing?" Scaramouche was quick to become defensive about it. He didn't know why, but it somewhat bothered him that someone was taking enjoyment in his work. However, he realized he was getting way too close to a stranger and quickly backed up. "Gee, I didn't think anyone would listen to that unsightly trash. Do you have cotton in your ears or something?"

Scaramouche huffed as he folded his arms over his chest. He never thought he'd garner an audience, let alone someone who actually knew of his songs. Despite being highly critical of his own music, he found it nice that someone else could appreciate his lyricism. It made him feel less like an amateur guitarist and more like an authentic, aspiring musician.