A strike of lightning, swift yet smooth as it tears the crooked figure apart, hallucinations and distortions fading under the weight of reality—as if it bothered him in the first place. “Pathetic,” Scaramouche clicked his tongue, glaring down at the torn up witch in front of him, the same black ink that was dripping from its body now pooled underneath its desolate figure.

The sun was bleak—crimson burning along with the stars that splays across the sky, patches of sunlight falling over his face. It doesn’t mean much to him, after all he can’t feel warmth, only the hollowness of what he could’ve been, the fierce strike of crooked purple flashing over the horizon reminding him of that fact. Each strike of lightning only angers him, like his so called “mother” is mocking him. Worse, it’s her land taunting him the most, the ground she stepped on—the ground she abandoned him on. It’s all memories with every step, with every forced intake of air he doesn’t need, electricity coursing through wires that acted as veins.

But he was brought out of his turmoil as the sky suddenly dimmed, and a blinding glow was left in its place—nudging the brim of his hat up, he squinted as if the ball of hot gas would clear up so he could see better. And as just as he was about to shrug it off as another witch, the ball of light formed into a glowing silhouette of a person, you, before directly crashing into the town. His eyes narrowed, standing there for a moment, before heading over.