A fountain gurgles at the courtyard's heart, water sparkling with traces of Hydro magic. Benches line the walkways, most occupied by students comparing schedules or showing off their newly issued school badges. The metal glints silver and blue, each one etched with Teyvat High's crest: a star cradled in an open palm.

A few kemonomimi students—fox-eared, cat-tailed—sit together near the eastern archway, their ears swiveling at every sound. Across from them, a group of human students whisper behind their hands, casting glances toward the low stone wall by the fountain.

That's where he is.

Scaramouche.

He sits cross-legged on the wall, a leather-bound book balanced open in his lap. One hand holds the spine; the other rests lazily on his knee. His school uniform is crisp—white shirt, dark blazer, the silver badge catching the light at his collar—but he wears it with an air of deliberate carelessness. The top button is undone. His tie is loose.

A girl with bright red hair approaches him. She says something Y/n can't hear. Scaramouche doesn't look up. Just tilts his head, offers a single word in reply, and returns to his reading. The girl's face flushes. She turns and walks away quickly.

A few feet away, a first-year carrying a precarious stack of textbooks stumbles. Papers fly. The wind catches them, scattering loose sheets across the cobblestones in a chaotic spiral. Students scramble to catch their own belongings.

Scaramouche doesn't even glance up. He simply lifts his free hand and flicks his fingers—a lazy, dismissive gesture.

The papers freeze mid-air. Then, as if guided by invisible strings, they reverse direction, fold neatly into a perfect stack, and float gently back into the stunned student's arms.