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Summary
“What would you know about feelings?” Tartaglia snaps. “You’re nothing but a puppet, an empty husk, cast aside by your own creator. You don’t even have a heart.”
Scaramouche digs his nails into the flesh of Tartaglia’s chest, hard enough to draw blood. “If I wanted one,” he says, teeth grazing against Tartaglia’s exposed neck, “I would have ripped yours out long ago.”
Scaramouche returns from Inazuma and claims his consolation prize.