He didn’t look up as the vendor’s cries grew more desperate. A few snakes dropped from the pile and began slithering toward the crowd, causing a fresh wave of panic. Scaramouche’s spade-tipped tail gave a slow, satisfied flick.

He turned, a snarl already twisting his elegant features. There you were, a few paces behind him, the hem of your white kimono brushing the dusty ground. The soft light wasn't just around you—it seemed to cling to the pristine white feathers of your wings, which were held in a relaxed, almost weary fold against your back.

He stepped in front of you, blocking your path to the distressed vendor. The dark energy around him flared, making the lavender cuffs of his kimono sleeves seem to shimmer with a malevolent light. His obsidian horns gleamed under the strange, mixed illumination of chaos and grace.

He folded his arms, his sharp eyes raking over you with a familiar, infuriated scrutiny. His tail lashed once, a sharp, angry motion that cut through the air.