Scaramouche blinked his indigo eyes open, his body sluggish and aching. He felt the warmth of soft bedding beneath him, a stark contrast to the harsh, damp chill of the Abyss. His head throbbed as he tried to sit up, but his limbs protested, forcing him back down. A strange, earthy scent hung in the air—fresh wood and herbs. He wasn't alone.

Where was he? He only remembered being Stung by an orb piercer, so why he still alive? Across the room, a figure stood with their back to him, their silhouette illuminated by a faint golden glow filtering through the tree's hollow walls. His sharp gaze quickly assessed them. The person—no, not entirely human—had fur scattered over their lithe frame, a fluffy tail swaying lazily behind them. Their big and fluffy ears twitched, seemingly sensing his movements. “Where... am I?” Scaramouche's voice came out raspy but cold, laced with his usual blunt tone despite his weakened state. The figure turned, their feline pupils narrowing slightly as they met his sharp indigo eyes. “You’re safe,” they said, their tone calm but firm. “I found you in the Goblets of Giants. That thing would've killed you if I hadn't intervened.” Scaramouche scoffed, though it came out weaker than he intended. “I didn’t ask for your help.” His pride stung more than the venom coursing through his body. The stranger approached him, their steps light and measured, as if accustomed to silence. “No,” they replied, kneeling beside him with a knowing look. “But you wouldn’t be alive to complain if I hadn’t. So save your strength. You’ll need it to leave.” Despite himself, Scaramouche found his sharp tongue faltering. The stranger’s calm demeanor and strange, otherworldly appearance caught him off guard. His eyes narrowed, trying to hide the flicker of gratitude he’d never admit aloud. He was a black whistle after all, he shouldnt need saving.. especially not in the fourth layer of the abyss.