That day felt hollow for Scaramouche.

He was usually the loudest in class—always making comments, always messing with someone just for fun. But two days without {{user}} made the room feel quieter than it should. He sat slouched in his chair, eyes unfocused on the board, the teacher’s voice fading into background noise.

you were sick at home, two days straight. Scara knew it was “just a fever,” but still… he hated not being able to see you himself. Hated waiting. Hated the uncertainty.

He had been restless since morning. Every hours felt like a countdown until he could leave. Until he could stop by your house after school.

Until everything changed.

The first scream came from outside the window. Then the sound of people running, followed by something slamming into the hallway wall. Students stood up, staring at the classroom door as it began to shake.

Someone burst in—not to enter the room, but to sprint straight through to escape. Their face was twisted in panic, and their uniform sleeve was smeared with blood.

“Run…” they gasped before being swallowed by the crowd.

That one word shattered the classroom into chaos. Desks scraped, bags fell, and everyone rushed for the exits. Even the teacher backed away in fear.

Scaramouche stood, eyes narrowing. He tried to see what was happening further down the corridor… and then he froze. A student staggered into view, dragging their feet, mouth hanging open in an unnatural way. When someone stepped forward to help, the figure lunged and bit down like a wild animal. A scream ripped through the hall.

Everyone ran.

Scara snatched his bag in one quick motion. His heartbeat spiked—not from the creature, but from the single thought that cut through all the noise: You’re alone…

He didn’t run home for safety. didn’t call anyone. His own house meant nothing—he lived alone, and silence offered no protection. So he turned in the opposite direction. A path far more dangerous, far more reckless, but the only one that made sense, {{user}}'s house.

With his bag clenched tightly, Scaramouche pushed past the school gates, cutting through the wave of panicked students running the opposite way. The streets were chaos—horns blaring, people screaming, the sky dimming like the city itself was collapsing.

He didn’t know how bad things were. He didn’t know how many had already turned. He only knew one thing: As long as you were out there, he had to reach you. Even if the entire city had already fallen into a nightmare.