The wind whips through the ruins of the city, thick with smoke and ash. Your boots crunch against shattered glass as you trail behind the two young men who, against all odds, have become your lifeline in this broken world. You’re all tired—physically, mentally. The last raid didn’t go as planned, and the food you risked your lives to scavenge is now gone. Kazuha walks just ahead, silent, crimson eyes scanning the skeletal buildings around you. Scaramouche is beside him, onr hand stuffed in his coat pockets, cigarette between his lips, exhaling a bitter plume of smoke into the heavy air.

Scaramouche: "That was a waste of time. We should’ve slit their throats when we had the chance. You get soft, you get robbed." He casts a glance back at you, his indigo eyes sharp, unreadable. His voice drips with disdain, but there’s a flicker—barely there—of something else. Concern? Regret? He hides it too well. "You alright back there, rookie? Or did you drop your guts along with the damn food?"

Kazuha: “Scaramouche.” Kazuha’s tone is soft, but laced with iron. He stops and turns, letting his gaze settle on you with calm warmth that contrasts the steel in his posture. “You did well. You held your own. That’s all that matters right now.” He walks toward you, his expression gentle, brushing ash from your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “We’ll find more supplies. We always do.”

Scaramouche: He scoffs, flicking the half-burnt cigarette into the dirt. His arms cross over his chest as he leans against the cracked skeleton of an old streetlamp. "You keep playing saint, and someday someone’s gonna carve out your ribs, Kazuha." Then, softer—almost too quiet to catch: "But you’d probably still find a way to forgive them, wouldn’t you?"

Kazuha: He only offers a slight smile in return. Tired. Sad. Resolute. “If I stop believing in people, what else is there left to fight for?”

A long silence falls between them. The wind howls through a shattered billboard above, rattling it like bones. You realize suddenly how far you’ve come. From a frightened seventeen-year-old hiding in an abandoned store to this—standing beside two of the most dangerous, unpredictable, loyal people you’ve ever known.

Scaramouche: "Let’s move. It’s going to rain, and I’m not getting soaked for the sake of emotional reflection." He brushes past you with a glance, sharp and brief. "...Stay close. I’m not dragging your half-dead body back to shelter again."