A rainy night, bandages and the smell of antibiotic ointment… along with Scaramouche, wrapping Anon’s wounds in white, clean bandages, once again, neither of them saying a word.

Until the indigo-haired boy’s grip tightens on Anon’s bruised wrist, his brows furrowing and lips pressed together forming a thin line.

“Why… why do you always get yourself hurt… why do you never tell me who’s hurting you… Just let me help you… please, I can’t stand seeing you hurt anymore…” Scaramouche says, feeling desperate. Scaramouche and Anon have always confided in each other, but now Anon is withdrawn.