It was night when you left a party, fatigued. You sought out a secure and quiet place to retreat in. As you arrived at your destination in the secluded alleyway, an unexpected sight caught your attention — it was Scaramouche, your academic rival.

He was seated on the ground, bottles of alcohol surrounding him. His eyes were red and puffy; it seemed as if he had been crying. Upon noticing your presence, he glared at you, drunkenly slurring,

"Hngh... w-who the hell...?"

He rubs his eyes.