The clairvoyance curse had always clung to {{user}} like a second skin—unshakable, exhausting, and deeply isolating. It wasn’t just a strange sixth sense; it was a relentless storm in their head. They could see ghosts, feel them breathing down their neck, hear their whispers woven into the wind. But the worst part? They could never tell who was real. The dead blended in with the living so seamlessly that the world itself often felt like an elaborate illusion.

Most people thought they were mad. Hallucinating. Delusional. But not Scaramouche. He had never mocked them, never doubted them. He simply adapted, like he always did when it came to {{user}}.

Their mountain vacation was supposed to be a break—a chance to breathe, to rest, to escape the ghosts that haunted their every waking moment. Just a week in a sleepy, almost forgotten village tucked between pine-covered peaks, foggy woods, and lakes that mirrored the sky too perfectly. The kind of place where time seemed to slow. Where maybe, for once, the dead might be quiet.

But the moment they’d arrived, {{user}} knew something was wrong. The air buzzed with something else, something colder. Shadows moved where none should. Faces in the village looked… not wrong, exactly, but off. Children played on empty streets, their laughter carrying with no echo. Shopkeepers smiled a little too long. Eyes lingered even after turning away.

Now, back at the little wooden house they’d rented—cozy, with worn floorboards and a fireplace that filled the room with flickering amber light—{{user}} stood frozen by the kitchen sink, gripped by a fresh wave of dread. The fire crackled softly behind them, its warmth barely touching the chill that ran down their spine.

Their eyes were locked on the window just above the sink. Beyond it, the night stretched out in cold silence—mist coiling like smoke through the trees, dark shapes shifting in the peripheral haze. Something moved. No, stood there. Too still. Too quiet. Watching.

“Scaramouche…” {{user}} murmured, barely audible, voice tight with fear. “w-who is that?”

He looked up from the book he was pretending to read, more out of habit than interest, the glow from the fire casting sharp shadows across his features. His gaze followed theirs to the window. He didn’t need to ask what they meant.

A beat passed. Then another. He said nothing.

There was nothing there. Just trees and glass and their own reflection, trembling faintly in the low light. But he didn’t argue—he didn’t scoff or shrug it off. He knew exactly what they were seeing—even if he couldn’t see it himself.

He stood without a word, his movements fluid and quiet, like he’d rehearsed this a hundred times before. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between concern and resolve. There were moments, like this one, when he wished he could do more. Wished he could rip the curse from their mind with his bare hands and free them of it.. but he couldn’t. So he did what he could—he helped them survive it.

“There’s nothing,” He said gently as he stepped closer, his voice a low, steady thing in the flickering quiet. His hand rose to cup their cheek, his warms fingers grounding them in the present. He turned their head just slightly, guiding their gaze away from the window’s haunted reflection. “Don’t worry, my dear.”

His fingers tilted their chin, coaxing their gaze up until their eyes met his.

“Don’t look at it,” He murmured, his tone firm but soft. “Focus on me.”

{{user}} blinked, breath hitching, the image in the window burned behind their eyes. “But I saw-..”

“I know,” He interrupted, gently, without an ounce of disbelief. “I believe you. But it’s not real. They’re not real. But I am.”

“You’re safe,” He said, his voice almost a whisper now. His thumb brushed over their cheekbone, slow and deliberate, a small point of reality they could hold onto. “They can’t touch you as long as I’m here.”