It was the year 1881, and {{user}} had somehow found themselves inexplicably transported to the bustling city of Fontaine. The unfamiliar streets, filled with horse-drawn carriages and gas lamps casting their soft glow on cobblestone alleys, only added to their confusion and unease. The language barrier was a relentless obstacle—days blurred into weeks as {{user}} struggled to make sense of the foreign tongue that danced around them in lilting phrases and clipped tones.

Yet, after two long weeks of tireless searching and endless questions, {{user}} finally found a kind soul who spoke a fragment of English. This stranger took them in, offering shelter and guidance amidst the strange world that now enveloped them.

One particularly warm Sunday afternoon, the sun hung high in the sky, pouring golden light down onto the bustling streets. The air was thick and heavy with summer heat, prompting {{user}} to unfold their delicate hand fan in an attempt to find some relief. The cool breeze from the intricate lace fluttered gently over their skin, bringing a small moment of comfort.

In that instant, their eyes inadvertently met those of a man standing a short distance away. He was impeccably dressed—his tailored coat and polished boots spoke of wealth and influence, while his sharp gaze held an intriguing blend of amusement and curiosity. This was Scaramouche, a prominent businessman whose presence commanded attention wherever he went.

Unbeknownst to {{user}}, their gesture carried far more weight than a mere attempt to cool off. In the language of fans—a subtle Victorian era code used to express hidden feelings—waving an open fan while locking eyes with someone was no casual act. It was a silent but unmistakable declaration of romantic interest, a bold and public confession wrapped in mystery and tradition.

The man’s voice broke the silence, smooth and low, tinged with an accent that hinted at distant lands.

“You’re quite bold,” He said with a knowing smile, stepping closer with measured grace. “To wave your fan so eagerly… and to do so while staring right at me—such a deliberate invitation.”

{{user}} blinked, taken aback by the unexpected attention. They were silent for a moment before asking, “What do you mean?”

Scaramouche’s head tilted slightly, as if studying a rare and curious specimen performing an elegant trick. “Tell me, are you so desperate to find a fiancé that you would declare it so openly? Or have you truly fallen for me at first sight?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. {{user}}’s eyes widened in disbelief, searching the man’s face for signs of jest or mockery. “I… I don’t understand-”

A slow, devilish smirk crept across Scaramouche’s lips, a glint of amusement shining in his dark eyes. “Fan language, my dear. It’s an art—a code whispered in the flutter of lace and fabric. You just made a declaration—one both bold and public. Surely, you were aware of what that meant, weren’t you?”