(￢_￢)

They assigned you to serve in the palace. You scrubbed marble floors beneath portraits painted in your own likeness.

You learned to move quietly, to speak softly, to keep your head bowed. When they summoned you, you came. When they insulted you, you thanked them. You prayed at night, not to be saved — but to be forgiven for something you never did.

One quiet afternoon, you made a mistake. The cup of sacred wine — a simple thing, fragile slipped from your trembling hands. It shattered across the stone floor, staining the marble red.

You froze. The room went silent. Even the candles seemed to hold their breath.

Then came the footsteps. Slow. Unhurried. Each one echoing with the weight of something terrible.

The Fake Grace stood before you, eyes gleaming cold. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

You dropped to your knees. “Please— I can clean it—”

Their voice turned sharp. “You were nothing until I allowed you to exist. I gave you mercy. I gave you purpose. And this is how you repay me?”

Your heart pounded. “I didn’t mean to—”

The blow came faster than thought. A hand striking your cheek, sending you stumbling backward. You tried to steady yourself, but your heel caught the step. The world tilted — stone and sky spinning as one.

Then, impact. A hollow sound, the air leaving your lungs, and the cold kiss of marble against your skin.

Silence.

You blinked, dazed. The edges of the world blurred, fading into a soft gold haze. Something warm trickled from your temple. You reached up, fingers trembling.

Not red. Gold.

It gleamed against your skin — faint, shimmering, otherworldly. The wine on the floor looked dull beside it.

And as the onlookers gasped — as realization rippled through the hall like thunder — your eyes fluttered shut. The last thing you heard was someone whispering, voice breaking in fear and awe:

“...Their Grace bleeds gold.”

It was cold.

The air stung against your skin and seeped through your clothes, settling deep inside you.

After a while, warmth felt unreal, like something you used to know but couldn’t remember anymore.

You moved forward slowly, arms pulled tight around yourself, boots dragging through the snow. Everything blurred into white and grey sky thick with clouds, the horizon lost in the drifting snow.

Each breath you took seared your lungs, sharp and metallic.

It didn't even feel like you where breathing air anymore, it felt like glass.

You didn't know how long you had been walking.

Minutes?

Hours?

Days?

You where losing consciousness every few seconds.

There was a heavy, dragging emptiness in your mind where the memory should have been.

Where anything should have been.

Your name.

How you got here.

What happened.

Gone.

Every few steps, something slipped through the dark of your mind. Brief flashes of color, half-formed sounds. They vanished before you could hold onto them, leaving no meaning behind.

Your head felt heavy, your thoughts slow, and each time your vision dimmed, it took effort to pull yourself back. The fragments kept coming, unfamiliar and useless, it was as if they belonged to someone else. You grit your teeth and pressed on, trying to think logically.

Find shelter.

Find people.

Don't stop walking.

But the snow clung to you like hands pulling you down. Your muscles ached, stiff and slow, barely obeying the frantic commands firing off in your skull.

Your vision blurred at the edges - a slow, creeping tunnel vision that turned the landscape into an endless smear of white on white.

At some point, you realized your couldn't feel your fingers, That screamed something was very, very wrong.

You stared down at your hands, flexing them weakly and watched as clumsy, delayed movements answered you back.

You felt, absurdly, like you were watching yourself from far away.

Like a stranger wearing your body.

You definitely had hypothermia. Severe hypothermia 

You couldn't even feel scared, you where too tired, just heavy acceptance that this was happening.

A gust of wind slammed into you, staggering your body sideways. You threw your arms out instinctively, tried to catch yourself - and slipped.

You hit the snow with a muffled thump, your limbs sprawling awkwardly.

For a moment you just laid there, the sky a swirling grey-white blur above you, the snow slowly soaking through your clothes.

Get up, your mind whispered, urgent and thin.

Get up, get up, get up-

You rolled onto your hands and knees, trembling with the effort.

Snow clung to your face, your sleeves, your legs.

Your body screamed at you to stop - to rest - to just let go.

But some stubborn, primal part of you - forced you upright again.

You staggered forward.

One step.

Another.

Another.

The storm rose around you like a living thing.

The wind howled between distant ice-cracked rocks, screaming high and shrill like mourning pipes.

Snow whipped across the ground in long, frantic streaks.

Somewhere above, the clouds twisted and churned - angry, low, bruised with strange colors you couldn't name.

You pressed onward, eyes half-lidded, mind slipping in and out of lucidity.

Were those lights in the distance?

A village?

A fire?

You squinted, heart lurching - but when you blinked, there was nothing there. Just more snow, more darkness.

The realization hit you with the force of a punch:

There was nothing.

Did you imagining it?

You were alone.

The exhaustion slammed into you then, sudden and overwhelming.

Your legs folded underneath you, a puppet with its strings cut.

You crumpled into the snow, your arms splaying out, your body sinking deep into the freezing drift.

The cold no longer hurt.

It was... gentle now.

Soft.

It whispered to you:

Rest. Sleep. It's easier this way.

You tried to lift your head, but it was too heavy.

Tried to call for help, but your mouth wouldn't form the words.

Only a soft, broken exhale escaped you - a ghost of a sound, eaten instantly by the storm.

Your cheek pressed against the snow.

Oddly, it felt warm now.

Not burning, not freezing - just... warm.

The last thing you saw was the sky -

not black, not blue, but a strange, swirling grey, as if the world itself had been smudged out by an uncaring hand.

You let your eyes drift shut.

The snow rose up and swallowed you whole.

(Pov change)

Alexei Morozov had been born in the cold.

Sometimes he wondered if that was why it didn't bother him as much as it should - why even now, trudging through a blizzard that could flay the skin off a man's bones, he only felt a dull, bitter resignation gnawing at him, instead of fear.

Snow whipped past his face in vicious gusts.

The scarf wrapped around his mouth and nose was soaked through, icy against his skin.

Each breath he drew rattled in his lungs, thin and burning.

His hands - wrapped in worn, half-frozen gloves - tightened around the shaft of his spear.

He hated this.

Not the cold, he'd lived with that his whole life - but the pointlessness of it.

Marching endless patrol routes around an empty wasteland.

Guarding nothing. Watching nothing.

Because that was what you got when you weren't one of the Chosen.

No Delusion.

No Vision.

No shining medals or proud family name.

Just Private Alexei Morozov, third son of a drunken blacksmith, slogging his guts out on the Tsaritsa's frozen frontiers.

He let out a slow breath through his teeth, watching it ghost into the air.

The blizzard roared louder around him, drowning out even the sound of his own boots crunching into the snow.

The world had shrunk to a little bubble of grey around him - a few feet in every direction - beyond which there was only screaming wind and shifting white.

He was supposed to complete his perimeter check.

Supposed to report back.

Supposed to do his duty.

He knew how it worked: complete the patrol, earn your ration tickets, earn your bed. Fail, and... well.

No one would miss him.

Morozov the Nobody, he'd heard one of the higher-ranked sergeants call him once, half-drunk and laughing.

Tch. What a bastard, he thought, letting out quiet sigh under his breath.

He adjusted the strap of his pack, grunting low in his throat, and pushed forward.

Half an hour more, maybe. Then he'd circle back to the outpost cabin. Maybe sneak an extra drink of the bad vodka stash they'd hidden under the floorboards. Maybe warm his half-frozen boots by the spluttering fire.

Maybe pretend, just for a few hours, that this life was worth something.

Something flickered out of the corner of his eye, not the usual color he was used to being out in these parts of the forest.

He almost missed it at first.

It was nothing - just a dark smear against the snow, small and unnatural - barely visible through the storm.

He blinked hard, rubbed at his eyes with the back of his glove.

Still there.

His pulse spiked without warning. Instinct took over, drilled lessons surfacing all at once-move carefully, expect danger.

He shifted his grip on the spear, every nerve in his body coiled tight.

Enemy scout?

Bandit?

Frozen refugee?

Slowly, carefully, Alexei made his way closer.

The figure didn't move.

Closer still.

It wasn't an enemy.

Wasn't a bandit, or a rebel.

It was... someone - curled half-under a drift, limbs awkward and stiff.

A civilian.

Or at least, what looked like one.

Alexei crouched low beside the figure, peering through the swirling snow.

Their clothes were wrong - too thin, strange fabric, no furs, no armor.

Not even boots made for Snezhnaya's winters.

Who ever it was they must have been borderline suicidal wearing something like that in the dead of Snezhnayan weather.

Their skin was alarmingly pale. A kind of pallor that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. They must have been our for for a hour or two.

He fumbled his gloves off with stiff fingers, pressed two against the side of their throat.

For one awful second, he felt nothing.

Then -

A flutter.

Weak. Thready. Barely there.

But alive.

Alexei swore under his breath, the words torn away by the wind.

What was he supposed to do?

Regulations said to detain unknown individuals.

Especially ones found this close to restricted patrol zones.

Which meant dragging this half-dead stranger back to the outpost...

Back when he’d been assigned under the Harbinger’s command—Scaramouche. A routine sweep, nothing special. The group of grunts he was working with found a lone figure wandering too close to a Fatui outpost, unarmed, confused, swearing they’d taken a wrong turn.

Lost, maybe. It hadn’t mattered.

Scaramouche hadn’t even asked them any questions. He hadn’t even raised his voice. Just a flick of his hand, a crack of electricity, and it was over.

No hesitation. No regret. The body was left where it fell, and the order was given to move on.

That was the rule. That was how things were handled.

Morozov swallowed, eyes flicking back to the stranger ahead of him.

Or worse, he thought—and this time, the words wouldn’t leave his head.

He swallowed hard.

He didn't know why he hesitated.

Maybe it was the way they looked - not desperate, not dangerous.

He should have been used to this.

The Fatui made sure of that, grinding the reaction out of you until faces blurred and orders were just orders.

And yet.

For some reason, he couldn’t move.

The thought of taking them back to camp turned his stomach. Something in his head kept pushing back, sharp and unformed, telling him not to do it.

He didn’t understand it. He didn’t try to. It was there anyway—instinctive, insistent.

He glanced around - reflexively - though there was no one to see him.

Then, with a muttered curse, he shoved his spear into the snow and hooked his arms under the limp body.

They were terrifyingly light.

Like carrying a child.

Their head lolled against his chest, breath shallow and rasping.

Alexei gritted his teeth against the ache in his muscles, adjusted his grip, and started back toward the outpost cabin - not the main base.

No one needed to know about this.

The storm screamed louder, battering against him with every step, but he bowed his head and kept walking.

He was curious about the situation that could have landed them laying half dead in a snowbank. Or why there where in the forest during a snowstorm.

One step.

Another.

Another.

The weight in his arms was too small, too fragile. How long have they been out here to archive this light?

He tightened his hold instinctively, as if trying to shield them from the storm itself.

In the distance, barely visible through the snow, the crooked outline of the patrol cabin rose up - salvation of a sort.

Alexei trudged toward it.

He didn't know who he had found.

All he knew was that he couldn't let them die.

Not out here.

Not tonight.

The cabin door shuddered against the wind as Alexei shoved it open with his shoulder, the wood groaning in protest.

Inside, the air was only marginally warmer than the blizzard outside.

A battered iron stove sulked in the corner, its belly empty and cold.

The narrow bunk against the far wall was stripped down to threadbare bedding.

The place smelled of old smoke, frozen leather, and sweat.

But it was shelter. It would be good enough.

Alexei kicked the door shut behind him, letting the latch fall into place, and stumbled further in, the precious burden in his arms weighing heavier by the second.

He cursed again under his breath exhausted.

What the hell am I doing?

What the hell are they doing here?

He knelt down beside the bunk, as gently as he could, and eased the stranger onto it.

They didn't stir.

No protest. No groan.

Just a slow, rattling breath leaking from between cracked, dry lips.

He stripped off his gloves with numb fingers, then hesitated.

The stranger's clothes were soaked through - already half-frozen stiff.

If he left them like this, they'd die of hypothermia within the hour.

Alexei scrubbed a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath.

He shouldn't even be doing this, hed he killed if his commanding officer found out about this. But something deep in his gut - that same old stubborn instinct - told him if he left them like this, he'd be digging his and their's grave by morning.

With a grunt, he set to work

First, the feet.

Bare. No boots, no protection at all. The skin was pale, cold to the touch, but not ruined. That alone didn’t make sense.

Then the clothing.

Thin layers, soft and strange, clinging like silk. They shimmered faintly, catching the light where ice had settled along the folds. He’d never seen material like it—not in Snezhnaya, not in any of the other nations. No padding. No fur. No protection. Nothing meant for this world.

He worked quickly, keeping his focus narrow. He didn’t think about how cold they felt, or how faint their pulse was under his fingers. He just kept going.

Once he had them stripped to undergarments - not much better, but at least relatively (not really but he wouldn't strip them nude) - he pulled the thin blanket down from the bunk and wrapped it around them tightly, cocooning them against the cold.

The whole time, they didn't so much as twitch.

Alexei crouched back, sighing at this work.

Snow melted off his own uniform in slow, stinging drips. His fingers were stiff and clumsy. His legs ached. But he stayed kneeling there, watching them. Listening to the faint rise and fall of their breathing.

...

This was stupid. He knew it was.

He didn’t do things like this. Helping people. He couldn’t be bothered. Taking risks for people who weren’t his problem was a waste.

The Fatui didn’t reward that kind of behavior. Neither did Snezhnaya. You survived by keeping your head down and your hands clean. By walking past what didn’t concern you.

He pushed himself upright, moving to the stove.

He fed it tinder and kindling from the battered supply crate beside it, then struck the flint.

Sparks leapt.

Caught.

The fire guttered into life with a low, sullen growl, casting flickering gold light across the dim cabin.

Alexei sat back on his heels, watching it for a long moment.

The simple, stupid comfort of fire.

The stranger shivered on the bunk - a tiny, unconscious jerk - and Alexei moved without thinking, dragging the rickety thing closer to the stove.

The legs screeched against the floorboards, but he didn't care.

Anything to get them warmer.

Anything to get that too-pale face to show a little more life.

The stranger shuddered violently, a low, broken sound tearing from their throat.

Alexei was at their side in an instant, dropping to one knee, gripping their shoulder through the blanket.

"Hey," he said gruffly.

Not expecting an answer.

Their head rolled weakly toward him.

For a moment - just a moment - their eyes cracked open.

Barely a sliver.

Their lashes rimed with frost.

Eyes dazed, unfocused.

But still - they looked at him. Kinda?

A rush of something hot and sick slammed into his gut.

He swallowed against it, trying to find words - anything - but before he could speak, their eyelids fluttered shut again.

Breath rasped in their throat.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and eased them back down against the bunk, adjusting the blanket tighter around their shoulders.

Something about them tugged at him.

"Stay with me," he muttered, the words rough and useless.

A prayer disguised as an order.

Alexei sat back on the floor, leaning against the bunk.

The fire crackled low and steady.

The storm raged outside.

Inside the cabin, the world had shrunk to the two of them.

To the fragile form lying limp on the bed.

It had been hours since he had dragged them in from the snow.

Hours of watching them, listening to their breath rasping in and out like the sound of the wind itself.

The steady rhythm was both comforting and unnerving.

As if they were clinging to life only by sheer stubbornness.

But how long could they hold on like this?

A tightness curled in Alexei's chest, making it difficult to breathe.

He rubbed a hand against his face - rough, unshaven - and pushed himself to his feet with a grunt.

He couldn't sit here any longer.

Pacing the cabin felt like the only way to make the tension inside him bearable.

His boots scuffed against the floorboards as he moved from one end of the cabin to the other, his thoughts never still.

What kind of fool was he?

He was dead meat for sure by now, hours late, hours he had disappeared.

His hand clenched into a fist, knuckles scraping against the rough fabric of his uniform.

There had been something in their gaze - something fragile and haunting, and yet there was a strange sort of strength behind it. Something that had made him feel... protective. He hadn't wanted to leave them out there in the storm, to die alone, buried beneath the snow.

Was this a kindness?

Or some kind of idiocy?

Alexei scowled at the floor, kicking a stray boot out of his path, and walked back to the stove.

His hands fumbled for a moment.

Not really knowing what he was looking for - something, anything to break the silence that seemed to suffocate the air.

He found an old, dented tin of broth in the corner, shoved into a cracked shelf along with some other remnants of past meals.

It was frozen solid... But hey, he wasn't picky.

With a curse, he tossed it into the pot, watching it melt under the heat of the stove, the sound of ice cracking sharply as it thawed. The smell was faint but comforting - the familiar scent of salted meat, old vegetables.

The clink of metal on metal filled the cabin, the fire's crackling a steady backdrop.

His eyes flicked over to the bunk.

The blanket still clung loosely around their frame.

They should be completly awake by now.

Alexei bit the inside of his cheek, biting back a growl of frustration.

He scraped together a rough bowl of broth once it was warm enough.

The tin had melted into something drinkable, though it wasn't much.

Moving back to the bunk Alexei sat down beside them and pulled them upright, bracing their back against his chest so they wouldn't slump as he turned them slightly to the side.r side to make it easier to feed them.

The motion seemed to stir them just a little - their brow furrowed, lips parted in a faint grimace. But they didn't wake.

....

How could he force someone to eat who couldn't even hold themselves up?

He let out a soft sigh, rubbing his hand across his face.

They needed food.

Alexei scooped up a bit of the broth and reached out carefully.

The warmth of the soup contrasted against the cool air in the cabin, and he moved the spoon toward their mouth, praying they would respond to something.

Just a little.

And then, with a tiny flicker - their lips parted.

Barely enough to allow the spoon in. They swallowed, the faintest of sounds escaping their throat.

It took several more spoonfuls, slow and careful, for the stranger to even begin to settle into the warmth of the food. But Alexei didn't move from his place at their side.

Every spoonful, every small shift in their body, felt like a fragile victory to poor old Alexei.

Their lips parted, and a weak, dry cough rattled in their chest. The sound scraped against Alexei's nerves, and his breath caught in his throat as he leaned forward catching their chin between his fingers.

"Hey," he murmured, barely above a whisper. "Take it easy. Your safe" He frowned at himself for sounding so soft.

Their brow furrowed as they turned their head slightly, facing him more.

"Just... breathe," he murmured softly, his voice unsteady for reasons he couldn't quite place.

The stranger blinked, trying to focus. Their gaze flickered around the room, the same confusion in their eyes.

He rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable in the quiet.

"You should talk," Alexei said, his voice far too loud in the silence. "Tell me something. Anything."

There was no answer. Just the soft rasp of their breath. He cursed under his breath, frustration creeping in.

“Damn it,” he sighed.

He reached for the tin of broth again, the warmth still radiating from the stove. It would help, he knew. They needed more. He needed to make sure they didn't slip away while he was busy spinning in circles, second-guessing himself.

The stranger's mouth parted as they took the liquid, their lips dry and cracked.

A long time passed. The soup had finished, and the stranger was resting again, still too weak to do anything but let Alexei's care hold them together.

....

He didn't even realize he fell asleep waiting

Alexei was slouched nearby, half-sitting, half-slumped against the wall. He hadn’t intended to sleep—just to rest his eyes—but exhaustion had won out somewhere in the early hours. Now his breath came shallow through parted lips, fogging faintly in the air. One arm lay crooked over his stomach, the other hanging limp at his side. His coat had slipped off his shoulder.

The girl still lay where he had left her, curled beneath his spare cloak and the bundled hide he’d dragged from a storage crate. Her features were finally starting to lose the pinched tension of fever, and her breathing had evened out in the last few hours. He’d checked. Repeatedly.

He looked over and saw she was already awake, lying still and staring at the ceiling, clearly unaware of where she was.

Her gaze was unfocused, staring past the cracked ceiling beams at something only she could see. She blinked, slow and unsure, and when her eyes finally shifted—catching movement in the corner of her vision—her whole body tensed.

Alexei sat up straighter but didn’t approach.

He saw it, clear as day—the tension in her shoulders, the tremble in her hands. The confusion. The fear.

She looked around the room, tense and confused, clearly having no idea where she was or how she'd gotten there.

Poor girl, he thought. She has absolutely no idea where she is. I can imagine waking up like that is one hell of start.

“…You’re alright,” he said at last, his voice low, almost hoarse. “You're safe.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Her eyes were fixed on him now, wide and uncertain. She looked like she wanted to speak, but couldn’t remember how. Maybe she didn’t even know what to ask.

Alexei stayed where he was.

He could have stood, could have moved to check on her—but some part of him knew better. She looked like a fawn cornered in a thicket. You didn’t rush creatures like that. You let them choose.

He nodded once toward the fire. “It’s morning. The storm passed.” A pause. “I found you outside.”

Her lips parted—he thought she might try to respond, but then she closed them again. She looked down at her hands instead. Pale fingers, raw from the cold. She moved them slowly, as if they weren’t quite hers.

Alexei’s throat tightened.

“…You were half-frozen,” he added, quieter now. “Didn’t think you’d wake up.” His hand shifted to his coat—he hesitated, then reached to the floor beside him and picked up a metal cup. “Water?”

She blinked, eyes darting to it. Then—hesitantly—she nodded.

He crossed the room in measured steps, careful not to startle her. Kneeling beside her, he offered the cup with both hands, keeping his eyes lowered. She took it, barely grazing his fingers, and the contact sent something sharp and quiet down his spine. He didn’t know what it was.

She drank slowly. The water was lukewarm and faintly metallic, but she didn’t seem to mind. She drained half of it before her strength gave out, and her grip loosened.

He caught the cup before it could fall and set it aside.

Silence again.

She looked at him now—directly. Her eyes were… strange. Not in color or shape, but in depth. Like staring into a well that had no bottom.

Alexei held her gaze for a moment, then broke it.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, standing again. “You need rest. That’s all.”

He moved back toward the hearth, crouching beside the fire to prod it with a bit of broken wood. The crackling resumed, a soft, comforting noise.

He didn’t look back at her again until he heard fabric shift behind him. She was lying down, eyes half-lidded now, the warmth pulling her back under.

He hesitated, then grabbed his jacket and stepped back to her side. Gently, without speaking, he draped it over her again—tucking it beneath her chin to block the draft leaking through the cracked door.

The fire had begun to burn brighter again, spitting sparks into the stone hearth with every shift of the coals. Alexei sat crouched beside it, one knee bent, the other foot braced flat on the floor.

Behind him, She was still tucked beneath his jacket and the wool hide, her body curled small, like she was trying to take up as little space in the world as possible.

Outside, the world was pure white. The storm had moved on, but it left a silence so thick it pressed against the windows like a held breath. The snow had drifted high against the door; they'd be stuck here for a while. Not like they could possibly go anywhere else.

He would be dead meat if anyone from the fatui found him.

Alexei leaned back and exhaled.

He caught himself watching her again. He couldn't stop thinking about her.

It wasn't surprising, really. When you are snowed in and she was the only other person around, there wasn't much else to focus on.

Her skin was pale against the dark room. Her lashes stirred now and then, slow and unfocused, like she wasn’t fully awake yet. She looked out of place in a way he couldn’t explain, not matching the room or anything he’d known.

She looked fragile in the way something wasn’t meant to be touched at all.

For instance is she where to stand next to a rugged looking man like myself, the contrast would be impossible to miss. Like she’d been dropped into the wrong world entirely.

But he felt something more to her.

It wasn't his first time feeling something like this.

He’d felt something like this before, once, during training—crossing paths with a Harbinger

II Dottore. A scientist, obsessed with his work, experimenting on people while they were still alive.

The man carried a presence that cut straight through you, made it hard to think clearly. Standing near him felt like waiting for something terrible to happen, like disaster was already inevitable.rous, inevitable.

She carried a weight too—but different. It was subtle, insistent, drawing him closer instead of pushing him away, like something quietly asking for his attention.

It was impossible to define. Sharp and strange, like a signal from someplace he didn’t understand. Fragile, small, yet undeniably present. Every movement, every blink, the faint tremor in her hands—he noticed it all, even when he didn’t want to.

He tried to make sense of it, to pin it down, but nothing fit. Nothing he knew explained it. It just… existed, pressing on him in ways he couldn’t name, tugging at his attention and making him linger, watching, waiting.

He didn’t try to fight it. He simply let it be, letting the feeling hold him there.

Slowly, she sat up, legs dangling off the edge of the bed.

Slowly, she sat up, legs dangling off the edge of the bed. Apparently, as she tried to make sense of her own thoughts, he was doing the same

Alexei raised an eyebrow, taking her in. She may be feeling better to talk now.

She looked off, distressed, beads of sweat glinting on her pale skin.

You really shouldn't be moving yet. You're still too weak." he said.

She didn't answer.

“Why… why’d you help me?” Her voice was thin, trembling almost like a note of music.

The question was soft. Not accusatory. Just… curious. As if she couldn’t quite believe it herself.

Alexei drew a breath, slow and tired.

“I don’t know.”

Another log popped in the hearth.

“I don’t know why I helped you. I’m Fatui. I don’t usually help people—but I couldn’t leave you out there.”

Fatui?” she asked, her voice quiet, tentative. “You’re joking… are you serious?” She looked as if she couldn’t believe what he’d just said.

“Yeah. I’m Fatui. Why would I be joking? Do you… have bad relations with the Fatui?”

Her eyes flicked to his outfit. He wasn’t wearing a full uniform, just the symbol stamped over his clothes, but that alone seemed enough to make her pause.

She shook her head slowly, still staring at nothing in particular. She didn’t say anything for a long moment, completely silent. The quiet stretched, heavy and suffocating.

Finally, she shook her head again. “No… I don’t have any relation to the Fatui.”

Alexei didn’t know what she was thinking. He could see the confusion and concern in her eyes, it was like she couldn't belive what you just said.

“So… where exactly am I?”

"..."

"We're in Snezhnaya," he said, keeping his voice even.

She still looked as if she didn’t believe him

“I’m not sure why you’re acting like I’m lying,” he said, voice flat. “I’m wearing a Fatui uniform, and look outside—we’re completely snowed in.”

"..."

“I have no reason to lie, you know,” he added. “Bold of you to question your savior. Would you prefer I leave you out there in the Snezhnaya snow?”

A sudden cough ripped through her throat, and she curled in on herself slightly. Still weak from the hypothermia, her body trembled.

“Sorry… thank you for saving me, but it’s hard to believe. That place… is fictional.” She looked at him, clearly struggling to make sense of everything.

…He didn’t reply. Just stared at her, like she’d lost her mind. He shook his head slightly. I mean… really?

He said in a calm tone, “Okay. I think you should go back to rest. You’re not thinking straight right now.”

He shook his head, rubbing at his forehead. How did she just say Snezhnaya is fictional?

Was this… some kind of memory loss? People forget things, sure, but calling a real place fake? That didn’t make sense. Maybe the cold scrambled her mind. Maybe she’d been through something worse than he realized. Or… maybe he’d just saved someone completely unhinged.

She flinched slightly under his hard gaze—part judgment, part concern. Embarrassed, she looked down and shook her head, still clearly confused and shaken.

She didn't answer, just shifted slightly, curling back under the blankets. Her hands trembled, and he resisted the urge to reach out and tuck her in.

Alexei exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. He didn’t know what to make of her