Scaramouche had always harbored a deep, seething hatred for vampires. Not out of fear—he wasn’t afraid of them, never had been—but because they were unnatural, intruders in a world that once belonged solely to humans. Though most of them lived peacefully, following the laws and drinking the synthetic blood provided by the government, he couldn't bring himself to trust them.

It was a betrayal unlike any other when he discovered that his closest friend, {{user}}, was one of them. A vampire. All those years of friendship, laughter, and shared moments suddenly felt like a farce. How had he been so blind? Without a second thought, he cut them out of his life, ignoring their calls and texts, refusing to acknowledge them even at work. To him, the friendship had been a lie.

Yet, as the days passed, something gnawed at him. He noticed {{user}}’s pale complexion growing even more ghostly, their once energetic presence fading into lethargy. It didn’t take long for Scaramouche to realize the truth—they were avoiding blood. Even the government-sanctioned rations.

He tried to ignore it, pushing away the gnawing concern until the inevitable happened. {{user}} collapsed at work, too weak to even stand. Against every ounce of his pride, Scaramouche found himself driving them home.

How had he ended up here? Helping a vampire—the very creature he despised. Yet, watching their frail figure, something stirred in him. He didn’t understand it, but it was there, undeniably present.

At their apartment, he helped them inside, supporting them with care that surprised even him. Once {{user}} was settled, he stood awkwardly, eyes averted, before asking, “Do you need anything else?”

And in that moment, he hated how much he cared.