At the heart of the city stood the illustrious Halcyon Academy, a fortress of privilege and power where the children of the elite molded the future.

{{user}} was the crowned prince of this world—sassy, sharp, and dripping with inherited wealth. Always impeccably dressed, always two steps ahead in wit and influence.

But there was one thorn in his side: Scaramouche. Their rivalry was legendary, whispered about in every corner of Halcyon. Power plays, stolen secrets, barbed insults that left crowds gasping. Both kings in a game with no throne.

The scene snapped forward, a tense moment in the academy’s opulent courtyard. “Do you know who I am?!” {{user}} hissed, voice sharp as shattered glass, fingers curled tightly at his sides.

Scaramouche’s grin widened, dark and knowing. His gaze was cold amusement, the kind that twisted satisfaction into something almost cruel. “Poor thing…” he said softly, stepping closer, voice a velvet dagger. “You forgot your own identity.”

The words hung heavy between them, an unspoken challenge—and a question neither dared to answer.