The city’s so-called hero was a menace. That was the only way you could describe him. Arrogant, sharp-tongued, and so unbearably full of himself that every mission ended in a shouting match.

"Wanderer" had made it painfully clear—he despised the vigilante who worked alongside him. That was fine. The feeling was mutual.

Yet somehow, it was far easier dealing with him in a fight than it was now, standing behind the counter of a quiet little café, staring at the very same man, utterly oblivious to who you really were.

Scaramouche wasn’t in his usual hero attire. No signature hat, no arrogant sneer that made you want to kick his shin. Instead, he leaned against the counter with a half-lidded gaze, looking for all the world like just another tired customer. His posture was loose, casual even. But his expression—good grief—his expression was soft.

Not at all like the man who’d threatened to choke on a rock rather than be seen with you.

You should’ve ignored it. Kept playing along. But something about the way he looked at you, like a puppy waiting for attention, made your fingers twitch with frustration.

How could he act like this? Sweet, charming even, in a way that made regular patrons swoon—when just an hour ago, he’d been yelling at you about “ruining the mission with your reckless behavior”?

And the worst part? You knew his identity. Had known for months. While he remained blissfully unaware that the barista standing before him was the very same vigilante he loathed.

“The same as always,” he murmured.

Your jaw clenched. Oh, you wanted to punch him.