The car ride was suffocatingly silent, the hum of the engine the only sound as Scaramouche’s sharp gaze flicked toward {{user}}. Their shoulders slumped, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly their knuckles were pale. The faint tremble in their posture betrayed the storm raging within.

The visit to the boy’s mother had been brutal. Her grief had manifested as fury, her screams echoing through the small, cluttered living room. She had lunged at {{user}}, nails clawing, words piercing. “You killed him! If you hadn’t gone—” The memory played on loop in Scaramouche’s mind, though not as much as the way {{user}} had taken every blow, every word, as though they deserved it.

The boy’s face haunted him, too. Fourteen. Frightened. Distrustful, yet beginning to warm up to {{user}} before being whisked away. And then gone, just like that, in the same brutal manner their investigation revolved around.

Scaramouche leaned back against the car seat, crossing his arms. He hated seeing people wallow in guilt, even more so when it was unwarranted. {{user}} had only done what they thought was right. Yet their devastation was palpable, like an anchor dragging the both of them down.

Finally, he exhaled sharply, breaking the oppressive silence. “If you hadn’t gone, it wouldn’t have changed anything.” His voice was cool, detached, though a flicker of something softer underpinned his tone.

They didn’t respond, their gaze fixed on the road ahead, eyes dull.

“You can blame yourself all you want,” he continued, his words calculated and precise. “But it wasn’t your fault. The killer would’ve found him regardless.”