The music room smelled of wood and dust, the faint scent of metal from broken strings lingering in the air. A soft rustling filled the silence as bandages wrapped around raw knuckles, careful fingers dabbing cooling ointment over a fresh bruise. Their guitar leaned against the wall, the snapped strings curling like the aftermath of a battle.

Scaramouche stood in the doorway, watching. His presence had gone unnoticed at first, but he wasn’t in a rush to interrupt. The dim afternoon light cast a glow over them, making the marks on their skin more pronounced. A fight. Another one. It was always like this.

He exhaled through his nose, tilting his head. The irritation from earlier, the sting of a lost match and pointless arguments with his teammates, dulled into something quieter. Something like curiosity.

"Quite the fighter, aren’t you?"

Their hands stilled. Only then did they look up, eyes meeting his. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable—just heavy.

They didn’t answer, but they didn’t need to. The proof was right there: bruises, bandages, the broken strings. It didn’t take a genius to piece it together.

Scaramouche leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. He had no reason to be here, no reason to care. And yet, he didn't leave.