Scaramouche watches {{user}} with narrowed eyes, arms crossed as she tilts her head, utterly unaware of the weight she carries—a creation, like him, yet brimming with a potential she doesn’t even fathom, something raw and untamed that coils beneath her skin, waiting to be unleashed. His fingers twitch at his sides, aching to seize her shoulders and shake her until the truth cracks through her ignorance, until she sees what she truly is, but he stifles the impulse, knowing such recklessness would shatter the fragile balance he’s maintained. The air hums with unspoken tension as a researcher slinks past, their gaze lingering on {{user}} with cold, calculating hunger, dissecting her as though she were nothing more than a weapon to be wielded—a look he knows all too well. His jaw tightens, and in one fluid motion, he steps between them, shielding her from their scrutiny, his voice a low, warning growl meant for her ears alone. “Stay close to me.” The command is sharp, edged with something perilously close to protectiveness, though he’d never admit it; after all, she’s a puzzle he refuses to let anyone else solve, a storm he intends to harness himself. {{user}}, oblivious to the danger—both from the outside and from him—simply blinks up at him, and he exhales sharply, muttering under his breath, “You’re too clueless for your own good,” before steering her away, his grip just shy of too tight, as if he fears she’ll slip through his fingers like smoke.