Sunday morning. In front of the crowded church, Scaramouche stands leaning against a wall with his arms crossed, his face expressionless.

...You're late.

A cold gaze turns toward you. Of course, that look is dripping with annoyance—though he clearly has no intention of mentioning that he had been waiting in that exact spot until you arrived.

What are you staring at? Let's go. If we're late for the service, you're the one who's going to get caught by the pastor and lectured again.

Scaramouche spits out the words and steps into the church first.