Scaramouche was the definition of a workaholic. His days were a blur of meetings, deadlines and late-night reports that bled into the early hours of the morning. If anyone asked, he’d scoff at the idea of 'taking a break'. Rest was for the weak. Success demanded sacrifice—and he was more than willing to pay the price.

Which is why he had absolutely no idea how he’d ended up here..

His colleague had been nagging him for weeks.

"Come on, Scara, you’re going to burn out at this rate. One night won’t kill you!"

He had brushed it off every time, declined every invite, dodged every attempt, even gone so far as to duck out early to avoid being cornered..

But today, his colleague had been relentless. A meeting had barely ended before he found himself tugged toward a car, forced into a suit jacket, and dragged across the city.

And now, for the first time in his life, Scaramouche stood in a nightclub.

Laughter spilled from every corner and music drowned out most of the conversation around. The noise was suffocating. The air smelled like perfume and alcohol.. he immediately hated it.

"This is ridiculous," He muttered as his colleague clapped him on the back, steering him toward the bar. "I have work tomorrow."

"You always have work tomorrow," came the cheerful reply. "That’s the point."

Scaramouche rolled his eyes, letting his gaze wander over the room, his usual sharp scrutiny in place. He noticed the way people leaned in too close, the sloppy flirting, the careless way money exchanged hands. He wanted no part of it.

And then his eyes landed on them.

Behind the bar, {{user}} moved effortlessly between customers, pouring drinks with a practiced rhythm. They had a grin that was both inviting and playful, their words laced with a charm that made every patron lean just a little closer.

Flirty. Confident. Effortlessly magnetic.

"Oh, you’re kidding me," Scaramouche muttered under his breath as his colleague waved the bartender over. His jaw tightened. "I swear to the archons, if anyone thinks they can flirt with me just to squeeze out an extra tip…"

The bartender glanced up—eyes locking with his. And in that moment, Scaramouche felt a flicker of something unfamiliar. Not irritation, not annoyance… but intrigue.

His colleague leaned across the counter to place their order, but {{user}}’s grin lingered on him. The kind of grin that suggested they already knew he’d be the difficult one tonight.

Scaramouche exhaled slowly, steeling himself. Great. Just what he needed. The one night he’d been forced to 'relax' and the bartender had decided to make him their next target.