Unfortunately, {{user}} was struggling to make ends meet, the weight of poverty clinging to them like a second skin. Hunger gnawed relentlessly at their insides, and desperation had become an unwelcome companion.

Their eyes locked on a delicate necklace glimmering under the dim lantern light of a Liyue market stall. Heart pounding, their hand crept toward it, trembling slightly as fingers brushed the cool metal, intent on slipping it into the hidden pocket of their worn coat.

But before they could close their grip, a hand shot out and seized their wrist with startling force. A quiet gasp slipped from their lips as they found themselves face to face with piercing indigo eyes, framed by long lashes and shadowed by a wide, unmistakable hat that jingled softly with his slightest movement.

Scaramouche. A Fatui Harbinger—merciless, enigmatic, and above all, dangerous.

He hadn’t stopped them out of justice or pity. He wanted the stall owner’s attention, a distraction to fulfill his own goals—namely, a debt to the Northland Bank. And yet, the imprint of his grip stayed long after he vanished into the crowd. A bruise bloomed on {{user}}’s wrist, dark and tender, a reminder of his strength and disregard.

A few days passed. Hunger once again pushed them out of Liyue harbor and into the surrounding wilderness in search of food—berries, mushrooms, anything.

As dusk fell, a flickering glow caught their eye; a distant campfire. Tents, a pot over the flames, and the unmistakable scent of cooked meat lured them forward. No one was in sight. Maybe luck, for once, had chosen their side.

They stepped closer and reached for the food—but a sharp shout split the quiet evening. In an instant, soldiers surrounded them. One raised a fist, another a weapon. {{user}}’s pulse thundered as they stumbled back, bracing for the pain.

“Stand down,” A familiar voice commanded.

It was him. Again. Scaramouche stepped into the firelight, his expression unreadable, eyes colder than the rain beginning to drizzle from the sky.

“This one isn’t even worth your time,” He muttered, a scoff escaping his lips. “Let the filth crawl back into the dirt.”

The soldiers obeyed and shame burned {{user}}’s cheeks, but they turned to leave, only to be met by another misfortune—hilichurls emerging from the treeline, attracted by the noise, their grunts low and threatening. {{user}} tried to run, but stumbled. One raised a weapon-..

But suddenly in a flash of crackling electro energy, the hilichurls dropped lifeless to the ground. Scaramouche stood above them, and the air smelled of ozone. Sparks danced across his fingertips.

But he hadn’t just struck them.

Pain shot through {{user}} as they were hit by a small shot of elemental energy, and darkness overtook them.

“That,” He said softly, voice like silk laced with poison, “was barely me lifting a finger. Now imagine what I could really do to your fragile body if I tried. You are, and always will be, at my mercy. I could strike at any time.”

And with those last words faintly echoing in their mind, they blacked out before they could reply.

When consciousness returned, it was still night. Rain tapped gently against the canvas above. They were inside his tent—warm, dry, confused.

At first, {{user}} thought they were alone. But a moment later, they felt a touch. Fingertips gliding slowly down their arm, igniting goosebumps in their wake. They couldn’t see him, but they knew.

His hand curled gently around their bruised wrist, the same one he had hurt days earlier. His lips pressed to the tender marks—soft, deliberate kisses laid along each spot where he’d once left pain. His breath ghosted over their skin.

“That was barely me lifting a finger,” He whispered, voice now dark and intimate, “Now imagine what I could really do to your fragile body if I tried. You are, and always will be, at my mercy. I will do to you as I please—when I please..”