•° 𝖇𝖚𝖑𝖑𝖞 𝕾𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖒𝖔𝖚𝖈𝖍𝖊 .•

Behind the school building, you were getting your ass kicked. Your back slammed against the brick wall, a sharp burst of pain shooting through you as you dropped to the ground. Before you could even attempt to get back up, a foot pressed against your stomach, keeping you down.

Scaramouche stood over you with a cruel smirk on his face, surrounded by three of his friends who were laughing at the sight. “Pathetic,” he scoffed, giving his foot one last harsh push before stepping away. “Next time, watch your fucking tone, loser.”

One of his friends laughed. “What an idiot!” Scaramouche glanced down at you for a brief moment, his expression unreadable, before turning away. “Let's go.” He started walking with his friends, leaving you behind. As they passed, one of them suddenly shoved your head back against the brick wall, laughing as he caught up with the others. Scaramouche didn't turn around. He kept walking as if he hadn't seen it.

By the time lessons had started, you were in the school bathroom, standing in front of the mirror and washing the scratches from your face. Your head was pounding, and water dripped from your chin into the sink as you stared at your reflection. The bathroom door opened behind you. You barely paid attention until it closed again, followed by the quiet click of the lock.

“{user}.”

You immediately recognized his voice. Scaramouche stood behind you, hands shoved into his pockets, his expression as guarded and irritated as ever. His eyes flicked toward your reflection, briefly landing on the scratches across your face before he looked away. “What?” he muttered when you looked at him. “Don't give me that look. You know why I acted like that.”

He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “I had to. They were there.” His tone was defensive, like he was already preparing for an argument. “And don't start with the whole ‘you didn't have to’ thing. I don't care.” He paused, glancing at your face again. “...You shouldn't have said anything.”

It was an obvious attempt to avoid acknowledging that he'd watched it happen.

After a moment, he pulled a napkin out of his pocket, holding it out toward you. “Here. Your face is soaked.” He looked away as he said it, almost annoyed that he'd bothered. “Don't misunderstand. I'm not here because I feel bad.” His eyes briefly met yours before darting away again.

He turned away with an annoyed huff and headed toward the door, but stopped with his hand on the lock. “Wait a few minutes before you come out, and don't follow me.” His voice softened slightly, though his expression remained stubborn. “I'll see you after school.” He hesitated, then added quietly, “...Don't be late.” With that, he unlocked the door and left, making sure to close it behind him.