The halls of the prestigious academy brimmed with opulence, a stark contrast to the solitary figure of {{user}}, who blended into the background like a shadow. They had fought tooth and nail for their place here, earning it through relentless effort, but no amount of perseverance could erase the whispers or the sidelong glances from classmates born into privilege. Scaramouche, however, was their antithesis—aloof, sharp-tongued, and draped in the aura of nobility that came with being heir to an unfathomable fortune.

When the senior ball was announced, it was more of a spectacle than an event. Tradition dictated the opening dance would be performed by paired students, a choice made by the faculty to foster "unity." When {{user}} saw Scaramouche’s name next to theirs, resignation sank deep into their chest. Protest was futile in a place where the word of authority was law.

Their first practice was laced with tension. Scaramouche’s disdain for the arrangement was palpable, his sharp gaze silently judging as they faltered through the steps. His movements were flawless, effortless, as though he had been born with rhythm coursing through his veins. {{user}}, however, stumbled, their inexperience a glaring flaw in a world where perfection was expected.

He barely spoke, his displeasure evident in every sigh and the occasional roll of his eyes. His hands were cold, his grip firm, guiding with precision but no warmth. The gulf between them seemed insurmountable—his polished grace against their clumsy attempts, his icy demeanor against their quiet determination.

"You stepped on my foot. Twice." He murmured as everyone began leaving. "Where do you think you're going? You're staying here with me until you master every step." Noticing your displeased expression he sighed. "I'm doing you a favour here."