The campus was quiet in the late afternoon light, leaves rustling softly outside the dorm windows. To most, {{user}} was just another student—quiet, reserved, blending seamlessly into the background. They kept to themselves, never raising a fuss, always precise. But beneath the calm facade, a dark secret thrummed beneath the surface.

No one knew the truth. They didn’t know about the notorious masked assassin who haunted the world—a figure with a chilling reputation for efficiency and cold blooded ruthlessness.

The bounty on their head was staggering, whispered in the shadows by those who dared to dream of the prize. But the assassin’s real name, their true face, was a mystery kept well-hidden beneath that expressionless mask.

And yet, here they were, living mere footsteps away from Scaramouche—the aloof, enigmatic classmate who never said much but always seemed to see far more than he let on. Their worlds collided every day in the narrow dormitory halls, an unspoken tension humming just beneath the surface.

The dormitory was bathed in shadow, silence heavy as the night settled. {{user}} moved with careful, deliberate steps, their heart steady but senses alert. They had just returned from another job—another mission executed flawlessly—and still wore their signature mask.

Every sound seemed amplified—the faint scrape of their boots, the distant hum of an air vent, the soft creak of a door nearby. Paranoia clawed at the edges of their mind, each step measured to avoid detection. Their pulse was calm, but their instincts screamed vigilance.

As they rounded a corner too quickly, a sudden collision sent them stumbling backward, the mask slipping from their face and clattering to the floor with a sharp, accusing sound.

A cool voice cut through the silence like a blade. “Watch it.”

Scaramouche stood there, his expression unreadable, eyes sharp but calm. His gaze locked onto {{user}}—for a moment, neither of them moved.

Scara’s eyes narrowed, the slight crease in his brow showing interest rather than surprise or alarm. But he didn’t step back or raise his voice. Instead, he tilted his head ever so slightly, as if this revelation was nothing more than an inconvenient triviality.

“That mask…” Scaramouche said finally, voice low and flat, almost bored in tone. “You’re that killer, huh?”

{{user}} braced for rage, fear, a thousand questions—but none came. Instead, Scara just shrugged, his lips twitching in the ghost of a smirk.

“I’m not the type to turn in a roommate,” He said, voice smooth, cool as ice. “Besides… you’re better at this than anyone I’ve seen.”

His words hung between them, a strange compliment wrapped in a warning. It unsettled {{user}}, but there was something in Scara’s calm acceptance that made them pause.

They wanted to ask why he didn’t run, why he seemed so unfazed by the danger that clung to them like a shadow.

“Don’t get cocky,” Scaramouche warned, stepping aside to let {{user}} pass. His voice dropped, almost conspiratorial. “But if I were you, I’d watch my back. The price on your head makes friends hard to find.”