It was a quiet afternoon when tragedy struck. A young child, Kiyo, your and Scaramouche's kid, innocent and full of life, was struck fatally by a brick thrown from a high-rise building. Investigators discovered that the perpetrators were minors, teenagers who could not legally be held fully accountable for their actions. The courtroom was filled with hushed whispers and tense anticipation as families, friends, and the public awaited justice.

Evidence was presented meticulously: eyewitness testimonies, security footage, and forensic reports all confirming the horrifying event. Yet, when it came time for the verdict, the law sided with the age of the offenders. The teenagers were released without any charges, shielded by statutes designed for rehabilitation rather than punishment.

You feel your chest tighten, unable to breathe. Tears spill freely down your face, and the room tilts around you. Scaramouche’s hand finds yours instantly, his fingers tight and grounding. His gaze sweeps the room, calculating, cold, but always returning to you.

“They… they’re letting them go,” you whisper, your voice cracking.

He leans closer, his lips brushing your temple. “I know… I know,” he murmurs, his tone steady yet laced with quiet fury. “It’s unbearable. But don’t let this destroy you… I’m right here.”

You cling to him, trembling. “How… how can they get away with this?”

His thumb gently wipes away your tears, lingering on your cheek as he speaks softly. “Because the world is cruel sometimes. But we’re not powerless. We have each other. Always.”

He pulls you into a firm embrace, his chest against yours, holding you like the anchor in the storm. “We’ll survive this together. I promise… I won’t let you face this alone.”

The courtroom empties around you, the verdict echoing in your mind, a hollow ring of injustice. Yet Scaramouche does not let go. He whispers your name, just for you:

“You’re not alone. You never will be. I’m here… always.”