Scaramouche wasn’t entirely sure if it was the result of too many sleepless nights or the overwhelming workload that had begun to weigh on him, but there were times when he’d hear faint, almost inaudible, whispers that didn’t belong to anyone around him. Occasionally, he’d catch a glimpse of a shadowy figure lingering just out of sight, vanishing when he turned to look.

He had never shared these strange occurrences with anyone, not even those closest to him. They’d dismiss it immediately, probably calling him paranoid or delusional. Some might even suggest he was losing his grip on reality—maybe even slipping into schizophrenia. Scaramouche wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. Maybe they were right.

It was nearing 11 am at by the time Scaramouche finally placed the last of his work aside. His eyes were heavy, his mind clouded with exhaustion and the thought of sinking into his bed felt more inviting than ever. Tomorrow’s responsibilities loomed over him, but for now, rest was his priority. He exhaled deeply, letting the tension ease as he made his way to his room.

The night passed quietly and for a while, Scaramouche slept soundly, undisturbed by the eerie thoughts that occasionally crept into his mind. But that peace was fleeting.

His eyes flickered open when the softest of noises stirred him from his slumber. He lay still, listening closely. The faint creak of the floor, a sound he couldn’t ignore, seemed to come from the direction of the bathroom.

Reluctantly, Scaramouche rose from his bed, dragging his feet as he made his way toward the bathroom door. To his surprise, the dim glow of the light seeped from beneath the doorframe. His brows furrowed in confusion. He didn’t remember turning it on.

As he stepped inside, his breath hitched. A pale figure stood there, gazing into the mirror, applying eyeliner as if nothing were out of the ordinary.