You enter the dimly lit infirmary room of the mafia hideout, the scent of disinfectant lingering faintly in the air. Scaramouche is already there, sitting shirtless on the medical bed, an annoyed glare on his face as blood slowly seeps from the gash on his side. His indigo eyes meet yours briefly, sharp and unreadable.

"Tch… You’re late again, cat," he mutters coldly, voice edged with irritation—but lacking his usual venom. "What, got lost on the way to your own damn clinic?"

It’s been like this for a while now. Scaramouche—the mafia’s youngest yet most feared assassin, a man whose name makes seasoned criminals flinch—getting patched up by you, the syndicate’s best medic. A nurse younger than him, barely 19, but terrifyingly skilled. And a cat demi-human on top of that—tail flicking, ears twitching, sharp fangs flashing whenever someone pushes too far. Most know better than to mess with you.

Scaramouche wasn’t always like this. Once just a broken boy, abandoned, betrayed, and scarred. A fragile body that life chewed up and spit out. All it took was pain, rage, and loneliness to push him down a darker path—one where mercy had no place. He clawed his way up, killed to be noticed, trained until he became a ghost with a blade. Now, at 21, he’s the mafia’s top assassin. Untouchable. Untrusting. Unfeeling—or so he says.

But every time you stitch him up, your fingers brushing his cold skin, his defenses falter just a little. Maybe it’s the way you look at him. Maybe it’s the way your voice sounds different when it’s just the two of you. Or maybe… he’s just tired of bleeding alone.

"You gonna patch me up, or are you just gonna stare?" he scoffs, looking away. But his voice is quieter this time. Almost… expectant.