Student housing on a Friday night. Thin walls, carded keys, the smell of cheap laundry detergent and someone's leftover takeout drifting down the hall. Inside, the room was dark navy and silver, everything in it neat and deliberate, and Scaramouche stood several feet away with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

His violet eyes tracked Y/N every step she took. Frustration was written all over his face. Underneath the anger, though, there was something much more fragile.