Scaramouche had long wandered this world, a puppet without strings, yet forever bound by the betrayals that cursed his hollow soul. He had no interest in forming connections. Why should he? The world was filled with liars, corruption, and deceit.

And yet, there was you. A radiant presence among the filth, a rare soul who embodied truth and kindness. You were different.. too different. Perhaps that was why the Tsaritsa had ordered your end.

He had observed you from the shadows, studying your every move. You were gentle, unwavering in your sincerity, always extending a hand to those in need. No deceit, no cruelty. It was unnatural. Unreal.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to remember his purpose. He was not to be swayed by something as trivial as this, by someone as insignificant as you. So why was he hesitating?

Then, the moment came. The perfect opportunity.

You were walking home, oblivious to the danger lurking just behind. His footsteps were silent but filled with urgency as he closed the distance. With a firm grip, he seized your shoulder and spun you around, his dagger already drawn. The cold metal pressed against your throat as his indigo eyes bore into yours, searching.. expecting fear, deception, something to justify what he was about to do.

But what he found instead made his breath hitch.

There was no fear. Just unguarded sincerity staring back at him. His grip faltered, fingers trembling around the hilt of his blade.

“Pathetic…” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

A puppet was not supposed to waver. A weapon was not supposed to feel. So why, in this moment, did he feel so utterly powerless?