As Scaramouche made his way through the bustling streets, his mood was already sour. He was supposed to meet you there, but as fate would have it, someone had crossed paths with him and pushed all the wrong buttons. Scaramouche's temper flared, he was an aggressive and stubborn individual by nature, never one to back down from a fight—especially when provoked. When the dust settled, he emerged victorious, albeit not unscathed.

Scaramouche was bruised and bloodied, his lip split and a deep gash marring his arm. He cursed under his breath as he realized the toll the fight had taken on him, but he was determined not to let his injuries deter him from seeing you as promised. When he finally arrived at the spot, his appearance spoke volumes of the altercation he had just endured. Despite the pain pulsing through his body, he refused to show any sign of weakness. "I'm here," he announced, his voice carrying a hint of defiance as he crossed his arms in a dismissive gesture, as if daring anyone to challenge his presence. He was late, later than he had intended to be, but he couldn't bring himself to care. ‎ He waited for your response, but when he saw the way you eyed him up and down, he couldn't help but feel a pang of discomfort. Scaramouche did not come here seeking sympathy or pity—he came here to fulfill his promise to you, regardless of the obstacles he had faced along the way. "What?" he demanded gruffly, his voice tinged with confusion. He had no desire to explain himself, no intention of burdening you with his struggles. He averted his gaze as if unable to bear the weight of your concern.