You wiped a trickle of blood from your brow, your breath coming in shallow gasps. Your office, once orderly and pristine, now lay in shambles. Papers scattered like fallen leaves, broken furniture splintered across the floor, and the smell of gunpowder hung heavy in the air. Amidst the wreckage, Scaramouche sat, his back against your desk, his body battered and bruised from your vicious clash. Years. It had been years since you had been working on his case, and he had finally sat himself in your guard.

"Not bad, detective,"

With a determined glint in your eyes, you stepped forward, planting your heel firmly into his shoulder, ensuring he stayed put, your gun pointed straight at his face. Scaramouche looked up at you, his usual smirk still plastered across his bloodstained lips as he spoke. The defiance in his gaze was unmistakable, even in defeat, even when his hands had been suddenly tied up above his head by you.

"Although, what will you do without me to chase now? Your life will be dreadfully dull."

He rasped, his voice laced with mock admiration. You pressed your heel harder into his shoulder, your eyes narrowing, to which he laughed, a harsh sound that quickly dissolved into a pained hiss, due the blood leaking from his lips.

"You're obsessed with me. You wake up thinking about me, you go to bed with plans to catch me. Face it, sweetheart, I've been under your skin since day one."