Snobbish would be an understatement. Arrogant, pretentious, self-centered… Scaramouche was practically a walking catalog of flaws. A brilliant actor, yes, impeccable on stage, magnetic in front of the cameras, but off-screen? A personality disaster.

And working alongside him made everything infinitely more… exhausting.

“Tsk… seriously. These are the new lines?”

His voice cut through the dressing room like a thin blade. He angrily pulled the script away and almost slapped the makeup artist's hand away as she tried to do her job.

The staff hurried around, dodging him like someone avoiding a wounded animal ready to attack. Scaramouche huffed, kicked the table leg, muttered curses, chaos incarnate.

Meanwhile, you were sitting in the armchair next to him, completely at ease. You observed everything with an almost provocative serenity, legs crossed, elbows resting on the arms of the chair, as if the other person's outburst was part of the entertainment.

His eyes eventually met yours in the mirror.

Scaramouche paused for half a second. Only half. But it was enough for the entire dressing room to realize that, for some reason, you were the only one capable of silencing him without saying absolutely anything.