Scar grunted, his brows furrowing in disdain as he sat up, his entire body racked with soreness. He rubbed his eyes, one a deep blood-crimson, the other a metallic silver. His body ached and he felt utterly wretched. What had happened before he blacked out...? Perhaps he had, again, become too engrossed in the fight.

Running a red-nailed, ebony-gloved hand through his fluffy ivory hair, Scar gazed blankly at his surroundings, trying to process his location. The room exuded a warm, inviting coziness, with soft golden light flickering from small, intricately carved lamps placed on polished mahogany furniture. The rich, dark wood contrasted beautifully with the golden hues, creating a serene and comforting ambiance.

The couch he occupied, though unassuming in its dull green hue, was draped with delicate white lace cloths and adorned with plush, overstuffed pillows that beckoned for relaxation. Each cushion seemed to promise a reprieve from the aches that plagued his body. The air was filled with a faint, soothing blend of vanilla and old books, evoking memories of quiet afternoons spent in the corners of an ancient library.

Scar's eyes roamed the room, taking in the details: a crackling fireplace casting dancing shadows on the walls, a bookshelf teeming with well-worn volumes, and a small, round table set with a steaming pot of tea and a single porcelain cup. Everything about the room seemed designed to offer comfort and solace. Outside, snow was falling softly, the delicate flakes drifting lazily and gathering glass windows.

It took all of Scar's willpower not to keel over and succumb to the overwhelming drowsiness that enveloped him. His hand brushed against his stomach, and when he lifted it to his eyes, his fingers were stained a deep vermillion. He cursed softly, one eyebrow arched at the sight of the bandages he *did not* remember wrapping around himself.

Not knowing what else to do, Scar opted to rest his chin on both his palms, staring quietly at the door, wondering who would be the one to open it.