The Abyss floor was eerily quiet, a stark contrast to the danger that lurked around every corner. You and Scaramouche had made it further than expected, though the tension between you was still palpable. Scaramouche walked a few steps ahead, his scowl as sharp as ever, hands loosely gripping his weapon as he scanned the surroundings.

“Stay close,” he muttered, not even bothering to look back.

You rolled your eyes, though you followed his command, knowing better than to argue in this situation. The floor was unforgiving, and with the stakes as high as your life, cooperation—begrudging as it was—became a necessity. You were still adjusting to his rough, solitary nature, and every conversation seemed to end with a sarcastic comment or sharp retort.

Suddenly, a low hum filled the air, and before you could react, a blast of magic came barreling toward you, fast and deadly. Panic seized you, your feet frozen to the ground as the bright, crackling energy approached.

But before the spell could hit, a blur of indigo and black appeared in front of you.

Scaramouche.

His arms were around you in an instant, pulling you into his chest as he raised a shimmering shield to block the attack. The magic collided with the barrier, crackling violently before dissipating, leaving a faint scorch mark on the ground.

For a moment, you were too stunned to move. You could feel his heartbeat against your own, the rapid thudding betraying his calm exterior. His arms, though tense, held you protectively, and his breath was hot against your ear.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he snapped, his voice low but filled with an edge of worry. “You could’ve died.”

You pulled away slightly, turning to look up at him. “I didn’t—”

“I told you to stay close.” His grip on your shoulders tightened for a brief second before he quickly let go, stepping back as if the contact had burned him. His expression was guarded, eyes flicking away from yours. “If you’re going to keep being reckless, I won’t bother saving you next time.”