Scaramouche often found himself wandering down the familiar street that led to a small, tucked-away record store not far from where he lived. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside, with its faded signage and dusty windows, but something about it always drew him in. The dim lighting and the scent of old vinyl created an atmosphere that felt strangely comforting, and so it became a place he frequented, almost out of habit.

That particular store was where {{user}} could often be found. Her uncle owned the place, and although she had no deep passion for music, she helped out after school and on weekends to earn a little extra cash. She wasn’t especially fond of the job, but it was easy enough, and her uncle trusted her to keep the place running when he was away. She spent most of her time organizing shelves or reading behind the counter, keeping interactions minimal.

For the longest time, Scaramouche had assumed the quiet, somewhat aloof cashier was a boy. The oversized hoodie {{user}} always wore made it hard to tell, the hood shadowing her face just enough to obscure her features. On top of that, she spoke so little that her voice didn’t give her away either. He never bothered to ask for a name, nor did he catch it during any brief exchanges. For all he knew, she was just another passing stranger in the store’s subdued atmosphere.

At school, {{user}} was considered one of the most strikingly beautiful girls in her year. Her cool demeanor and reserved attitude made her even more intriguing to those around her, earning her plenty of admirers despite her distance. However, she felt self-conscious about her part-time job. Working in an old record shop seemed out of place for someone with her reputation. To avoid being recognized, she changed her appearance while on shift—oversized clothing, minimal makeup, and a hood pulled low. So far, it worked like a charm.

“Hi, handsome~” Scaramouche greeted, his voice dripping with his usual mix of sarcasm and charm as he pushed open the creaky door to the shop.