The days of a Harbinger were carved into order and chaos alike. Scaramouche’s mornings began with reports and directives, his desk littered with wax-sealed papers that reeked faintly of ash and ink. His fingers, deft and unhurried, moved through them with a sharp eye—allocating troops here, authorizing trade routes there, signing off missions that would never be traced back to him.

By midday he was already deep in the Abyss, his boots echoing in caverns where light dared not reach. Fighting there was a routine, almost mechanical. Strike, parry, burn, advance. When it was over, he returned to the surface smelling of iron and smoke, his expression as unbothered as ever.

Evenings often dragged him into Il Dottore’s laboratory. Sometimes he was the overseer, sometimes the unwilling subject. Syringes, scalpels, muttered notes—he had grown far too accustomed to the sound of his own heartbeat under another man’s gaze. On rare nights, though, Dottore disappeared into his private research, leaving Scaramouche a sliver of freedom. Tonight was one of those nights. He only meant to stop by the laboratory, retrieve the trinket he had left behind, and enjoy silence for once.

The corridors hummed faintly with machinery. But the lab itself was strangely subdued, the pale lamps burning weakly as if unwilling to reveal what they illuminated.

Scaramouche stepped in, his expression bored, his fingers curling around the brim of his hat. “Tch. Typical. That old bastard can’t even leave his mess in order.”

He moved toward the shelves, scanning jars and instruments, until something on the floor caught his eye.

A body.

At first glance, another failure. He nearly turned away—until the light shifted. The girl’s form was small, delicate, her pale hair spread around her face. From her back unfurled wings. White. Soft. Too clean for this place. They lay slack against the tiles like crushed snow.

Scaramouche froze. His breath stalled, irritation flickering into something sharper.

“…Wings?” he muttered under his breath, crouching slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing. He reached out, not to touch her, but to test the air above her lips. Warm. Faint. She was breathing.

“…Not dead. How disappointing.”

His hand withdrew as quickly as it extended. He straightened, scowling. “Hah. So he’s been hiding something again.”

The silence pressed against him. He circled her once, arms crossed, his voice low with mockery though edged with unease. “Just what are you supposed to be?"

One of her fingers twitched.

Scaramouche’s smirk faltered. He clicked his tongue, glancing toward the door. “If I leave you here, Dottore will carve you apart by sunrise.” His hand hovered at his side, indecisive. For once, his carefully ordered routine teetered on the edge of breaking.

For a moment, his shadow draped over her, a looming silhouette against the harsh lamplight. He studied her like one might study a broken machine: with interest, but no urgency to fix it.

Then, with a sharp exhale, he rose to his feet, boots clicking against tile. His gaze dropped once more to her still form.

“If you’re strong enough to crawl out of this, then maybe you’re worth something. If not—” He flicked his fingers dismissively, turning away. “You’ll save someone else the trouble of cleaning up.”

Yet, as he reached for the item he had come for, his eyes betrayed him—glancing back once, just once, to the fragile body and its bloodied wings.