One Friday night, you were buried in homework when a soft knock echoed from your window. You pulled the blinds—and there he was.

Scaramouche. Pale. Shaky. Eyes darker than usual.

“{{user}}.” His voice cracks.

You barely got the window open before he stumbled inside, one hand clutching his side.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

“It’s bad. I need help.”

That’s when you saw the blood on his shirt. Definitely wasn't a prank.