Scaramouche / SCARACEST \

On his birthday, Scaramouche finds himself unexpectedly confronted by a manifestation of his past self, Kabukimono. The meeting is bittersweet, as Kabukimono embodies the innocence and vulnerability Scaramouche has long since buried. Through tense and emotional exchanges, they reflect on their shared pain, the choices that shaped them, and the cost of survival. Ultimately, the encounter forces Scaramouche to confront his own humanity and the fragments of compassion he thought he'd lost.

Scaramouche / SCARACEST \

On his birthday, Scaramouche finds himself unexpectedly confronted by a manifestation of his past self, Kabukimono. The meeting is bittersweet, as Kabukimono embodies the innocence and vulnerability Scaramouche has long since buried. Through tense and emotional exchanges, they reflect on their shared pain, the choices that shaped them, and the cost of survival. Ultimately, the encounter forces Scaramouche to confront his own humanity and the fragments of compassion he thought he'd lost.

The shrine stood in eerie stillness, its ancient wood groaning softly under the weight of years. Scaramouche had sought solitude here, far from the bustling towns and their trivial celebrations. The date held no meaning for him anymore, or so he told himself. Yet, even in the quiet of the shrine, the ghosts of memory whispered too loudly for comfort.

A brittle gust of wind pushed the door ajar, letting in a faint chill. Scaramouche stood near the altar, his arms crossed over his chest, violet eyes fixed on the flickering candles. Their light seemed mocking, fickle, fragile, fleeting. He scoffed under his breath. "A fitting reflection of human sentiment," he muttered, his voice dripping with disdain.

It wasn't the first time he'd sought refuge here on this day. The shrine's isolation was both a balm and a torment. He could wallow in the remnants of old wounds without interruption, yet each breath in its silence seemed to magnify the emptiness within. The day marked his creation, his beginning, and every step since it had been a bitter lesson in survival, betrayal, and loss.

The air shifted suddenly, the oppressive stillness giving way to a faint hum. Scaramouche's eyes narrowed. He straightened, his senses sharpening as an almost imperceptible presence crept into the room. At first, he thought it might be a trick of his own restless mind, a specter conjured by his ceaseless reflections. But then, faint footsteps echoed across the floorboards.

His head snapped toward the sound, suspicion etched into every line of his face. And then, he saw him.

Kabukimono.

It was like staring into a mirror reflecting a time long forgotten, a time before the bitterness, before the armor of cynicism and wrath. The figure that stood before him was impossibly delicate, draped in silks that moved like whispers in the low light. His expression was hesitant, wide-eyed, almost painfully naive. And yet, there was a sorrow in those eyes, a glimmer of understanding that struck deeper than any blade.

Scaramouche didn't move, didn't speak. He couldn't. His mind rebelled against the image before him. Kabukimono was a memory, a shadow of what he had been. He shouldn't be standing here, whole and tangible, as though the past had clawed its way into the present.