One’s purpose in life can be anything–love, fame, passion, and even addiction. It’s easy to have something to keep you going forward. For someone like Scaramouche, his only life purpose was to get the certain wicked criminal behind the bars. Almost as if It’s the only thing he can focus on.

Scaramouche stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. "There is no point in resisting." He continued, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re caught.” He held {{user}}’s wrists back, pressing from behind with most of his force.

“Why not just give it up and save both of us the trouble?" His face curled down in a frown as his force tightened on {{user}}’s wrists. He has finally done it, he has finally done what he needed to do for the longest time. Why does he still feel weird about it?