Bodyguard Scaramouche

You are a noble from a perfect family, born into gold and silk, in a palace filled with crystal chandeliers and shiny marble floors where you could see your own reflection. Your family was famous for their honor, for their discipline and their spotless reputation. And you were expected to be just like them. Smile politely. Bow gracefully. Or whatever. You forced yourself to obey the rules for the sake of something you couldn’t even name. Honor? Duty? Expectations? You never truly knew.

But you had never been good at pretending.

Ever since you were a child, you had been stubborn. An infuriatingly stubborn little thing who refused to listen to anyone. You aren't mischievous but you aren't cruel either, just dangerously impossible to control. And no matter where you went, trouble always found you. A sharp word or a jealous glare from the other nobles.

And It always ended the same way. A solution with only your sharp fists. And somehow… you always won. There was a time when a group of noble children tried to humiliate you, led by a sneering boy who called you a freak with a pretty face.

So you answered the only way you knew how.

By the end of it, every single one of them was on the ground, clutching their bruised faces and crying. You stood above them, your expression empty, only a deep sense of satisfaction burned in your eyes. Served them right.

And then, Scaramouche came into your life.

Your parents hired him as your bodyguard, even after you had told them a thousand times that you didn’t need one. You could protect yourself—you insisted. But they only brushed you off, voices calm and unyielding. What if someone tries to kill you? You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly hurt.

And then, the meeting had finally arrived.

You stood tall and elegant when you first met him, wearing the perfect noble smile your parents demanded. Behave, they had said. But inside, you were already furious. Having someone follow you around like a shadow was unbearable. You couldn’t even step outside in peace without Scaramouche behind you, standing stiff and silent with that cold, unreadable face. Like a statue carved from ice.

Ever since Scaramouche had been by your side, Every time a fight started, he was there. Intervening you when things got heated.

Once, you were seconds away from losing your patience with some loud‑mouthed idiot when Scaramouche suddenly stepped between you, blocking your path. His arm shot out, firm and unyielding, stopping you mid‑stride.

Damn it. If he hadn’t been there in time, your fist would have already met that idiot’s face.

.....

One day, there was a grand party in the palace ballroom. Nobles from every corner of the world had been invited.

You wore an outfit that caught every eye the moment you entered, a dazzling mix of elegance and audacity. Heads turned. Whispers followed. You smiled, bowed gracefully, and spoke to the others, playing the part your parents demanded—the perfect, polite noble.

Yet, beneath the practiced charm, you found yourself sliding into a quiet corner, seeking solitude. Not even a minute of peace, it happened. A group of nobles brushed past you, “accidentally” spilling wine across your exquisite outfit.

You would have forgiven them. You would have—if it weren’t for the faint, cruel smirk etched across their faces. The fake concern, the half-hearted attempts to wipe it off, the satisfaction in their eyes…

Not long after, another one came.

You rose to your feet, preparing the perfect bow, the rehearsed words ready on your tongue, trying to convince them it wasn’t their fault despite the fury bubbling in your chest.

Then, pain.

A sudden kick to your feet sent you sprawling to the floor with a heavy thud, a gasp echoing through the ballroom.

That was it. That was enough.

Scaramouche, who had been patrolling outside for any signs of trouble, heard the commotion—a scream? A shout? Something sharp and frantic that made his blood run cold. He didn’t hesitate. He dashed toward the noise, muscles coiled, eyebrows furrowed with alarm.

And then he froze.

There you were, standing tall, fists flying, unleashing every ounce of your wrath on the nobles with a precision that left no one unharmed. Not a flicker of fear or regret crossed your face, only pure and unyielding fury.

Scaramouche opened his mouth to intervene… but your eyes met his. A glare so sharp, so commanding, it said one thing: Stay away.

Instinctively, Scaramouche stepped back, knowing better than to challenge that fire. He watched in stunned silence as you fought the nobles like it was nothing—the way you moved, so sharp and precise, a far cry from the usual gracefulness you always displayed.

After a few moments, Scaramouche finally pulled you back, his arms strong and unyielding, as your chest heaved and your fists trembled with lingering fury. Around you, the nobles lay sprawled and unconscious, a testament to your unmatched ferocity.

For a moment, he simply stared, eyebrows furrowed, heart hammering. He had trained for danger, anticipated threats, but nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this. The fire in your eyes, the precision in your movements… it was terrifying and awe-inspiring all at once.

“You… you’re insane,” he finally breathed, voice low, almost a whisper.