Justanotherlife

The streets of Sumeru City had always been dreadfully hot in summer, the kind of oppressive, clinging heat that seemed to seep into one's very bones. After all, some say Sumerian summers in the rainforest are far worse than even the nation of Pyro; at least there the heat was dry, scorching but honest, without the suffocating humidity that turned the air itself into a thick, breathable soup. Not that it mattered to a certain puppet. There were certain blessings to being born without certain human weaknesses, no sweat beading at the temples, no parched throat crying out for water, no exhaustion weighing down limbs that never truly tired.

There wasn't much that was good about Sumerian summers. The relentless heat never managed to stop the bustle of the city; if anything, it seemed to make the crowds more irritable, the merchants more desperate, the scholars more sluggish in their endless debates beneath the Akademiya's grand arches. But there was one saving grace, one small mercy that made the oppressive season almost bearable: the flower shop would most certainly have the freshest kalpalata lotuses. Their delicate petals would be at their peak, luminescent and perfect, untouched by the wilting fingers of the heat that claimed so many lesser blooms. For someone who could walk through the inferno without discomfort, such small pleasures became all the more precious.

Today that was the goal after all, buying a bunch of flowers that would inevitably wilt within a day, their vibrant colors fading to brown, their petals curling inward in defeat. Y/N had always liked such unnecessary things, finding beauty in their very impermanence. Humans are odd after all, clinging to things that are fleeting, treasuring them precisely because they won't last. But who was he to judge, given he was spending his hard-earned mora to buy said flowers for a human nonetheless? That would make him a hypocrite, and he'd had quite enough hypocrisy in his existence already.

Either way, the destination was Avidya Forest. Yes, he lived in Sumeru City, the commute to the Akademiya was considerably easier that way, since he now taught at the Vahumana darshan. He lectured on the failings of the political landscape of Inazuma, dissecting centuries of policy and cultural stagnation with the particular venom that only someone who had lived through it could muster. Really, who knew that instead of achieving Godhood, he would end up legally committing blasphemy against the Electro Archon, as in his not-so-dear mother? The irony wasn't lost on him. Though he must admit, he was made for this role. Perhaps the deep-seated hatred towards Inazuma in general helped fuel his lectures with an authenticity that the scholars found captivating. After all, he had been essentially abandoned by their archon, cast aside like a failed prototype. What better credentials could one have for teaching about systematic failure?

But Y/N had insisted on staying in Avidya Forest, stubbornly refusing the convenience of the city. Far enough that it would make him put in the effort to visit, yet not so far that he couldn't, or wouldn't, visit every day. She did like testing him in these odd ways, these little experiments in devotion that never failed to both irritate and intrigue him. After all these years, he had grown used to it, and truth be told, he wouldn't have her any other way. This was what he fell in love with, this stubbornness, this quiet defiance, this insistence on carving out her own space in the world. This was what he married, what he had chosen when he made vows he'd never imagined himself capable of making. This was what he signed up for, so now she gets her flowers, delivered daily without fail, and he gets to have some peace and quiet in the middle of Avidya Forest, away from the suffocating bustle of the city and his godforsaken students who question far too much and yet somehow have the writing ability of a teaspoon.

The forest route had become ritual by now, his feet knew every root, every turn in the path. Sometimes he wondered if he'd worn a groove into the earth itself with his daily pilgrimage. Avidya Forest was certainly the type of place Y/N had always loved. It had trees, ancient ones with sprawling canopies that filtered the harsh sunlight into dancing patterns of gold and green. It had plants of every variety, creeping vines and luminescent mushrooms and ferns that unfurled like secrets being told. And far too many flowers, blooming in wild profusion, as if nature itself was showing off. 

Record Log 2460 (Fatui Recording Device)

This is Prime, conducting record log 2460. The other segments have been pestering me about starting some sort of memoir project. Apparently, being back in Sumeru has made them all sentimental, which is fascinating, really, considering they're artificial constructs. Still, I suppose it's not entirely without merit. It's been nearly 500 years since I last set foot on this soil, and with my current research into creating a God, perhaps revisiting my origins might actually prove useful for once.

The old recordings should help, though I'll admit I've been rather negligent about maintaining these logs over the past few centuries. A shame, really. I probably shouldn't have delegated such tasks to the segments in the first place, my younger selves have always been disappointingly unreliable in these matters. Though I suppose that's what I get for expecting competence from... well, myself.

[Sound of papers rustling]

Where to begin, then?

The Akademiya had proved to be far less exciting than Zandik had anticipated, a revelation that tasted about as bitter as week-old coffee and twice as disappointing. Just a few months prior, he had been that bright-eyed student from some forgotten corner of Sumeru, practically vibrating with excitement as he stepped onto the pristine marble grounds of the prestigious institution. Finally, finally, he would become a scholar worthy of the name in this so-called land of wisdom. The Akademiya values knowledge above all else, they proclaimed. The pursuit of understanding was the greatest virtue a Sumerian could possess, they declared with such conviction that even the statues seemed to nod in agreement. And yet...

Here he sat, nursing his fifth consecutive project rejection, each one stamped with increasingly creative variations of "too ambitious" and "perhaps a touch too willing to, ah, bend certain established protocols," as one particularly nervous professor had delicately put it while avoiding eye contact. No project partner in sight, naturally, since apparently being intellectually curious had somehow branded him a social pariah. Who knew that suggesting they dissect a few Ruin Guards to understand their inner workings would be considered "alarming" and "a cause for concern"?

Needless to say, his illustrious academic career was proceeding about as smoothly as a Hilichurl attempting poetry recitation. Yes, this would certainly be a prime time to start a memoir, if Zandik ever felt inclined toward such frivolous pursuits. Though really, his life before the Akademiya had been rather... inconsequential. Tragically so, one might say. Picture this: a self-proclaimed genius born in some forgettable village, surrounded by people whose intellectual capabilities could generously be compared to particularly dim Slimes. Anyone with half a brain could guess how that charming tale unfolded. There wasn't much worth documenting about those early years, and he certainly wasn't one to waste precious time wallowing in childhood sentimentalities, especially when said childhood possessed all the fascination of watching paint dry on a Dendro Slime.

The village elders, bless their superstitious little hearts, had taken one look at the red-eyed infant whose very birth had claimed his mother's life and declared him a walking omen of misfortune. His own father, in a stroke of either brutal honesty or cosmic irony, had christened him with a name that literally meant heretic. Because apparently, even as a newborn, Zandik had been destined for a life of breaking rules and making people uncomfortable. Such was the way of backward villages, see something different, immediately assume it's cursed. The child with the bottomless pit of curiosity and eyes like garnets? Obviously trouble. How wonderfully predictable.

Anyway, circling back to his original predicament regarding that blasted research project, something that seems laughably trivial now after five centuries of what could generously be called a "particularly extensive" scientific career, back then, Zandik had been grappling with that most dreaded specter haunting every Akademiya student: expulsion. The threat was delightfully straightforward, really. Fail to submit a research project on time? Out you go, don't let the door hit you on your way back to whatever intellectual wasteland you crawled out of. The Akademiya, it seemed, was just as selective about which students it kept as it was about which knowledge it deemed "appropriate" to teach. Charming institution, truly.

Now, one might reasonably ask, if academic anxiety was such a universal experience among Akademiya students, why begin this memoir at such an unremarkable moment? Why not start with something more... dramatic? More befitting a future Harbinger? Well, the answer is simple: this particular day of academic dread happened to be when Zandik encountered someone who would fundamentally alter the trajectory of his existence. Someone who managed to solidify his obsession with knowledge to such an absurd degree that he's spent the last five centuries pursuing it with religious fervor, and is now, apparently, recording this ridiculous tale because his segments reached some sort of democratic consensus that this story needed telling. Democracy among artificial constructs of oneself. Truly, his life had taken some unexpected turns.

That individual in question was Y/N. How does one even begin to speak about her? Well, perhaps introductions are the logical starting point, though calling it an "introduction" feels woefully inadequate, like trying to describe a thunderstorm as "a bit of weather." She was quite the personality, after all. No, scratch that, calling Y/N "quite a personality" is the sort of criminal understatement that should be punishable by academic probation. Y/N was... how to put this without sounding like a complete fool? She was the reason Zandik truly fell in love with knowledge itself. Not just the pursuit of it, not just the acquisition or application, but the pure, unadulterated joy of learning. She embodied everything beautiful about the act of discovery, everything wonderful about that moment when understanding clicks into place like the final piece of an impossibly complex puzzle.

This is something all the segments would unanimously agree upon, naturally, a rare occurrence of consensus among his various selves. And yet, even their collective agreement feels insufficient to capture what she truly was. Perhaps she deserves her own memoir entirely. Though knowing her, she'd probably laugh herself breathless at the very notion, wave it off as "unnecessary dramatics," and suggest he focus on something more "practical." So her story will have to live within his own, woven through every moment she touched, which, admittedly, turned out to be far more moments than either of them initially anticipated.

Y/N was one of his classmates, though "classmate" felt like an inadequate term for someone who had managed to make herself a household name among the student body within mere weeks of arrival. Nearly everyone knew her, and for good reason: she had this absolutely maddening tendency to hijack half the lecture time with questions that were approximately three academic levels above what they were supposed to be learning. During the first week, Zandik had found her insufferably irritating. She would casually pull concepts from Rtawahist or Amurta to explain engineering principles in Kshahrewar, as if the darshans were merely suggestions rather than carefully established academic boundaries. It was unconventional, borderline heretical, and it challenged his rather... structured views on how proper engineering should be approached. The audacity of it all had made his eye twitch on more than one occasion.

However, after spending the last few months practically living in the House of Daena like some sort of academic hermit, desperately searching for research inspiration, her questions had begun to sound less like academic showing-off and more like... well, genuinely interesting inquiries. Not that it particularly mattered to him, of course. That was the extent of his knowledge about Y/N up to this point: the overconfident girl who asked fascinating questions and somehow made professors simultaneously excited and terrified. A stark contrast to Zandik, who much preferred lurking quietly in the sidelines, observing and plotting his own academic machinations in peace. Or so he told himself.

Y/N, unlike him, was remarkably popular among their classmates, though "popular" might be stretching it. It wasn't that they particularly liked her know-it-all tendencies or her habit of correcting professors mid-lecture. Rather, she was simply the type of person who made herself impossible to ignore, striking up conversations about class materials and beyond with anyone within a five-meter radius. She had this peculiar talent for making herself known, whether people wanted to know her or not. By this point, Zandik had overheard no fewer than a dozen rumors about her exploits, including the rather outlandish claim that she'd secured her Akademiya scholarship by somehow activating the massive Ruin Guard at Aradavi Valley, using it to construct a bridge across the ravine, then calmly deactivating it again, all during the annual scholarship competition. (This turned out to be completely true, as he would later discover, because of course it was.)

So naturally, the absolute last thing he expected was to discover that someone as socially connected as Y/N would also be lacking a research partner. How did he stumble upon this revelation? Well, she approached him that very day as he sat wallowing in the aftermath of his fifth consecutive project rejection, strode up to his corner table in the House of Daena like she'd known him for decades, and casually asked, "So, want to be research partners?" Just like that. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Honestly, looking back on it five centuries later, the sheer casualness of that moment seems almost absurd, considering how thoroughly she was about to upend his entire existence. But then again, with Y/N, such understated world-shifting was simply par for the course. Perhaps it's rather anticlimactic, this humble beginning. One might even feel disappointed by the complete lack of dramatic flair, no thunderclaps, no prophetic visions, no cosmic signs pointing toward a partnership that would span half a millennium. But this is, at the end of the day, a memoir, not some overwrought romance novel. Reality, as it turns out, has a frustrating tendency toward mundane origins.

Most things in life begin this way, really. Even the grandest of experiments typically start with the most unremarkable hypothesis scrawled on a piece of parchment. That is, regrettably, simply how the world works, the extraordinary emerging from the utterly ordinary, like a Nilotpala Lotus blooming in a forgotten pond. Fortunately, that casual beginning was the only bland element of this particular story. Everything that followed... well, both life and proper experimentation derive their true value not from flashy conclusions, but from the sheer enjoyment found in the process of discovery itself. And oh, what a process it would turn out to be.

Right, perhaps one should abandon the philosophical meandering and return to the actual events at hand. Zandik had, quite naturally, stared at Y/N with the expression of someone who'd just witnessed a Hilichurl recite poetry when she casually asked if he'd like a project partner, as if they'd been lifelong companions rather than virtual strangers who'd shared nothing more than classroom air. "What?" he managed eloquently.

"Project partners," she repeated with the patience of someone explaining basic arithmetic to a particularly slow Fungi. "Oh, do you already have someone? I do apologize, I heard through the grapevine that you were flying solo, so I wondered if you'd like to tackle something together. My third project proposal just got spectacularly rejected, and Professor Kazemi suggested I should 'probably collaborate with someone who might temper my more... ambitious tendencies.'" She offered a sheepish smile that somehow managed to be both apologetic and entirely unapologetic at the same time. "Sorry for making assumptions..."

Zandik continued staring, his brain desperately trying to process why in the name of all Seven Archons she was acting as though approaching a complete stranger and proposing academic collaboration was as normal as commenting on the weather. Did she perhaps mistake him for someone else? Had she suffered some sort of head injury? Was this some elaborate prank orchestrated by his classmates? The mystery deepened by the second.

"Are you... absolutely certain you're speaking to the right person?" he asked, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Perhaps she'd been collaborating with someone through the Akasha terminal who happened to share a similar name? Maybe she'd mistaken him for this hypothetical person she'd never actually met face-to-face? It wouldn't be the first time the Akasha had caused such confusion. The midterm project was serious business, after all. One didn't simply waltz up to a random classmate and propose partnership, especially not the antisocial corner-dweller with a perfect record of five consecutive project rejections.

"You're Zandik, right?" she asked, tilting her head with genuine curiosity. "The one who wrote that essay about chaos core dissection for the entrance exams? The theoretical paper that got published because it was supposedly one of the most innovative submissions this year?" She was definitely not mistaken. More importantly, and far more bewildering, she had apparently read his work. That did explain her approach somewhat, though it didn't make the situation any less mortifying. The uncomfortable truth was that Zandik was, at the end of the day, a socially awkward nineteen-year-old who had precisely zero experience conversing with women his own age.

(If Zeta happens to be reading this particular log, any retaliation attempts are utterly futile. Truth cannot be denied through the petty act of hurling important research papers into waste receptacles. This humiliating reality should have been anticipated when the consensus for creating this memoir was established. Consider it a learning experience.)

Unfortunately, all memories regarding Y/N remain as crystalline as pristine lake water in each segment's consciousness, such is the particular curse of possessing photographic memory. This includes the rather mortifying recollection of Zandik staring at her like a deer caught in Electro Hypostasis lightning while his brain frantically scrambled for an appropriate response. What he eventually managed to produce was: "I see, so... how can I help you?"

As if she hadn't literally just explained her intentions not thirty seconds prior. Like someone who had suddenly lost all cognitive function. Y/N, who would prove to be perhaps the only person he'd continue to genuinely respect five centuries later, largely due to her remarkably underwhelming capacity for patience with social disasters, simply repeated herself without so much as a hint of exasperation. As if he weren't being completely dense.

"Oh, I was wondering if we could work together on the project," she said with the same pleasant tone one might use to discuss the weather. "You clearly know what you're talking about based on that chaos core paper, and I've been considering incorporating chaos core research into this project. I figured I could use some better theoretical perspective."

Perhaps he should have thanked her then and there for displaying such extraordinary understanding toward his spectacular social incompetence. He didn't, naturally. Because apparently, being brilliant in theoretical applications doesn't automatically grant one basic conversational skills. Thankfully, that particular social deficiency had been remedied over time, thanks largely to Y/N's seemingly infinite patience with his conversational disasters and, later, the rather brutal crash course in diplomacy that came with joining the Fatui. He certainly owed Y/N a considerable debt of gratitude for her role in his development, though he'd be damned if he'd thank the Fatui for anything beyond providing him with unlimited research funding and conveniently fewer ethical committees breathing down his neck. But that was neither here nor there.

At the moment, faced with what appeared to be his inevitable academic doom, given his impressive streak of project rejections, Zandik found himself considering the practical benefits of her proposal. Perhaps convincing the notoriously picky professors to approve a project might prove significantly easier with two minds instead of one. Y/N was undoubtedly more skilled at the whole "talking to people without making them uncomfortable" aspect of academia, a talent he clearly lacked in spectacular fashion.

From a purely logical standpoint, this collaboration could only yield positive results. She had the social competence, he had the theoretical foundation, and together they might actually produce something the Akademiya wouldn't immediately toss into the academic equivalent of a trash bin. It was, he reasoned, a mutually beneficial arrangement. Nothing more, nothing less. How naive that assumption would prove to be.

Now that one reflects upon it, Zandik did manage to enjoy what could generously be called a normal youth, as normal as youth tends to be for those destined for greatness, anyway. Though that particular privilege was granted solely through Y/N's influence, much like most meaningful developments in Zandik's existence. Truth be told, despite all the monumental achievements accumulated over the past five centuries, the groundbreaking discoveries, the vast repositories of forbidden knowledge, the countless experiments that pushed the very boundaries of possibility, those days at the Akademiya still evoke a peculiar sense of nostalgia. Some segments might even grudgingly admit that those months of academic collaboration represented some of the happiest periods in their collective existence. Which sounds absolutely ridiculous when stated so plainly.

A cerulean dossier lay sprawled atop an ever-growing mountain of parchment and scrolls, its open pages exposed to the frigid, almost caustic chill lingering perpetually within the opulence of the Regrator's office. Y/N L/N. Age: 25. No formal affiliations. A modest criminal record marred only by petty frauds and minor solicitations—on paper, a trifling offender; insignificant, forgettable, laughable even. Certainly not someone whose name should be etched onto parchment of such importance, nestled between files of Harbinger-level interest upon Pantalone’s meticulously curated desk. And yet, inexplicably, here it was. Gloved fingers, elegant and ruthless in equal measure, drummed a steady rhythm against polished ebony wood—a deceptively innocuous gesture, yet for the trembling assistant standing silent nearby, it was akin to the relentless toll of a funeral bell. The Regrator's expression remained as impeccably serene as always; that porcelain smile affixed to his lips betrayed nothing, yet concealed everything beneath its careful, artful facade. But the air around him betrayed the hidden tempest brewing within—bitterly cold, sharp, and heavy, like the first biting gust heralding a fierce Snezhnayan blizzard. The assistant dared not breathe a word.

This past week had plunged the hallowed halls of the Northland Bank into unprecedented chaos. A singular Ponzi scheme had unraveled, thread by thread, the intricate tapestry of economic influence that Pantalone himself had painstakingly woven deep into the marrow of Snezhnaya's prosperity. The scandal had spread like wildfire, burning unchecked through the veins of commerce, infecting trust and confidence with doubt—and most insidiously, corroding the pristine sheen of the Regrator's hard-earned reputation. And the greatest insult of all? He had personally invested in it. Twenty million mora—vanished. Swindled by an operation whose crude, amateurish methods should never have breached even the remotest outskirts of his notice, much less the sanctity of his own personal accounts. It was humiliating. Worse yet—it was deeply, unforgivably personal.

“Sir, we found her,” the assistant stammered, voice trembling just above a whisper. “She’s been seated in interrogation for the past hour. She... she hasn’t uttered a single word.”

Pantalone’s fingers halted mid-rhythm, hovering ominously above lacquered ebony. For a fleeting moment, silence reigned—cold, oppressive silence, dense as the perpetual snows blanketing the outskirts of Zapolyarny Palace. He did not look up at first. But when he did, the glint behind his spectacles sharpened to something glacial, merciless as the frost-rimed shores of the Pale Lake.

“Not a word?” His voice was silken, each syllable polished and poised, yet beneath their velvet softness lurked a venomous undercurrent. “I was under the distinct impression that the Fatui boasted Teyvat’s most formidable military division—feared in every throne room, whispered of in every shadowed alleyway.” His lips curled upward into a smile that carried equal measures of grace and biting derision. “And yet you fail to extract even a single syllable from a trivial street swindler? How remarkably disappointing.”

His words cleaved through the air like a razor through silk, leaving a heavy, lingering silence in their wake. Beneath that immaculate façade, irritation simmered, far deeper and colder than any of his subordinates could possibly fathom. Truthfully, he had expected—perhaps even secretly hoped—for something more substantial. This woman’s little scheme, intentionally or not, had torn apart foundations so painstakingly constructed, rivaling even the very machination that had catapulted him from anonymity into notoriety. That scheme… just how long ago had it been? Fifteen years, perhaps. Yet the memories remained starkly vivid. Barely twenty years old then, a nameless con artist driven by ambitions that stretched far beyond the reach of his meager station. His plot had been audacious, almost reckless—siphoning billions of mora from the coffers of Snezhnaya’s elite, unraveling the fabric of national prosperity in a catastrophic cascade of ruin. Yet from those smoldering ruins had sprung opportunity. Dottore had found him in the ashes, perceiving the brilliance beneath the ruthless chaos, and extended a hand—neither punitive nor vengeful, but curiously benevolent. Recruitment, not retribution. His words still echoed clearly across the chasm of years:

"Rebuild it," the Doctor had urged, lips curled into a wicked smile. "Stronger. Smarter. Colder."

And so Pantalone had done precisely that. Now, standing once more amidst ruin—only this time, his own ruin—with another schemer seated silently in the starkness of his interrogation chamber, irony clung bitterly to his tongue. History, it appeared, bore a perverse sense of humor. To deceive him—to turn the very scheme that had once forged the foundation of his empire back upon its master—was an act of audacity so brazen, so utterly inconceivable, that he had anticipated someone far more substantial. A cunning rival, perhaps, draped in velvet and sharpened by venom; a mastermind worthy of the ruin wrought. Not the unassuming, nameless swindler whose humble existence was scrawled dismissively across a file.

He—Pantalone—had once lived within shadows, a creature borne of swift ambitions and quicker deceptions. A life woven meticulously from lies, manipulation, and a tireless pursuit of mora—never mind how stained with sin each coin might be. His schemes had been legion, their count lost amid the smoke-filled alleys and whispered backrooms of Snezhnaya’s underbelly. Tea houses that concealed illicit parlors beneath fragile porcelain smiles; gambling dens glittering falsely beneath lantern lights, each roll of the dice another hollow promise; rare narcotics passing discreetly through hands manicured in secrets, drifting among the nobility like whispered sins. If a vice offered profit, he had seized upon it. Mora had never asked for purity; it demanded only cunning.

But that was another lifetime. Now wealth arrived draped in tailored suits, spoken through silver-tongued contracts and portfolios swollen thick with interest, monopolies masked cunningly as national necessities. The filth and grime of his past had long since been washed away, replaced by the pristine sheen of calculated power. Legitimacy was no longer an obstacle—now, it was his personal signature, his brand, cultivated patiently like a rare vintage aging deep within the frost-rimed cellars of statecraft. Gone was the gutter-born hustler, clawing desperately at coins just beyond reach. Now, he was the Regrator—the Merchant Prince of Snezhnaya itself. The economy did not merely tolerate him; it yielded obediently beneath his gloved fingertips. And yet, despite all this… he had been deceived. Swindled, humiliated—like some witless aristocrat with more vanity than sense.

The steel sector had once been his crowning jewel—an intricate masterpiece crafted by patient hands, a subtle yet ambitious venture. A meticulous campaign engineered to wean Snezhnaya from its dependence on foreign arms, transforming it slowly, inexorably, into a self-sustaining titan. Indigenous weapon manufacturing: discreet, efficient, and destined one day to rival even Fontaine’s renowned mechanical ingenuity. Years of strategic investment, whispered manipulation, and precisely applied political leverage had shaped this initiative from mere aspiration into reality. To the world, it was little more than a humble industrial enterprise; to the Fatui, it was the lifeblood of their future war machine. And then—you appeared.

Your enterprise had slipped into the market quietly, elegantly, like the lengthening shadows at twilight. Modest. Unassuming. A ripple so subtle he might never have noticed had it not grown too large to ignore. Your share prices were convincing, your business model meticulously conservative. Even your backers appeared genuinely mundane, their names blending effortlessly into the monotonous murmur of bureaucratic paperwork. You had mirrored the structure of Fatui-backed firms so precisely—borrowing just enough familiarity to conceal deception beneath layers of authenticity. Every seal. Every ledger. Every signature. Flawless. Then, suddenly, the paper trail simply vanished—not in flames or dramatic ruin, but gently, quietly, like snow dissolving silently into frost-hardened earth. Poetic, almost beautiful in its subtlety.

Indeed, you might never have been discovered at all. It was not carelessness, but cruel chance—some twisted cosmic jest of bureaucratic absurdity—that exposed you. Someone on his team, gifted (or perhaps cursed) with an aggravatingly sharp memory, remembered a mediocre detail—a handwriting peculiarity hidden deep within files that should not have existed. Curiosity became suspicion, suspicion became investigation, and soon the entire charade unraveled. They traced the forged signature back to a lowly clerk who had lost a folder weeks prior—too terrified of punishment to report the error. From there, the threads were painstakingly unraveled. Ledger after ledger. Stamp by stamp. Rabbit hole after exhausting rabbit hole, until all roads converged inevitably upon you. And now, even as you sat within his interrogation chamber, expression unreadable, your silence impenetrable, as though none of this truly mattered—as though he did not matter—Pantalone found himself trapped between emotions he rarely indulged: Fury…and fascination.

“Well, she was not completely silent…” the assistant murmured hesitantly, voice faltering as though the words themselves might invoke punishment. “But her answers are far too… unbelievable, my lord.”

Pantalone exhaled slowly, elegantly, the sigh escaping from between parted lips with an understated disappointment rather than outright anger. Of course. Either his subordinates lacked the necessary imagination to discern a cleverly veiled lie, or—far worse—they were being expertly played, led around like children by an entertainer's strings. Judging from appearances, it was almost certainly the latter. With calculated grace, he pushed his chair back, its polished wood scraping softly against pristine marble. Rising fluidly to his feet, each movement precise and purposeful, he adjusted the immaculate cuffs of his coat, fingertips gliding smoothly along silk and velvet.

“Cancel everything for the next two hours,” he commanded quietly, voice carrying a smooth authority underscored by a subtle note of exasperation. “It appears I’ll have to handle this personally.”

His tone remained deceptively composed, yet beneath lay the unmistakable thrum of irritation—cold, measured, a frostbite rather than flame. Time was perhaps the only currency Pantalone could not summon at will, and this enigmatic woman had already extracted from him far more than mere mora. Still… if the complexity of her plot matched even a fraction of his suspicions—if she had truly danced perilously close to his crown jewel and emerged unscathed—then perhaps, indeed, his time would be wisely spent. Drawing in one last measured breath—half irritation, half intrigued curiosity—he stepped decisively toward the interrogation wing. The quiet precision of his footfalls echoed silently, each step whispering a promise far more chilling and dangerous than raised voices or open threats ever could.

Snezhnayan prisons possessed a reputation—and it was far from enviable. Dreary, decrepit, suffused with a cold that clung stubbornly to the marrow rather than merely chilling the skin. The stench of mildew and stale, stagnant air permeated every surface, sinking deeply into stone and steel alike—a corruption impossible to cleanse or conceal. Pantalone had visited these facilities before; briefly, reluctantly, and always with distaste. They were an unfortunate necessity within the grand machinery of empire, but hardly a component he cared to indulge. Fortunately, today’s excursion did not demand his descent into the most wretched depths. He would not be forced to pass rust-riddled iron bars nor meet the hollow, haunted gazes of those desperate souls who had nothing left to lose. Instead, his destination was the interrogation wing—a more dignified sector, elevated both literally and figuratively above the true squalor below. Yet even here, “cleaner” was a generously relative term.

He cast his gaze downward in subtle disdain, eyeing the immaculate shoes adorning his feet—hand-stitched Fontaine leather, custom-made to perfectly match the midnight hues of his tailored coat. Shoes decidedly unsuited for these grim corridors. In truth, this entire prison wing was beneath him—beneath his rank, beneath his wealth, beneath even the soles of those very shoes. Still, appearances mattered. The upper echelons of the facility had at least made an attempt at respectability. High-ranking officers and visiting dignitaries frequented these corridors often enough to justify the illusion of civility: a superficial coat of fresh paint here, reinforced lighting fixtures there. Minor touches designed only to mask the underlying rot, never to remove it. After all, who truly cared about society's lowest, forgotten remnants? They were not meant to be comfortable. They were not meant to be remembered. Yet here you sat—ensconced within these forsaken walls, forcing the Fatui’s esteemed Regrator himself to descend, however slightly, toward your humble station. Pantalone allowed himself a faint smile. The irony, bitter though it might be, was becoming increasingly amusing.

He was no stranger to the awkward, fumbling salutes of officers unprepared for a Harbinger’s presence—especially in a place as inconsequential as this. The startled widening of their eyes, the sudden stiffening of posture, that frantic desperation to appear useful—it was all too predictable. And increasingly irritating. Certainly, Pantalone appreciated respect. Who in his position would not? But respect, like fashion, required a certain finesse—an inherent sense of taste and decorum. Deference was meant to be silent, seamless, elegant; not barked out clumsily, like a frightened schoolboy’s pledge of allegiance. Why these minor functionaries expected acknowledgment from him at all was beyond his comprehension. These miserable creatures, these small, interchangeable cogs—if they possessed any real worth, they would hardly find themselves consigned to prison duty. Still, he smiled—cold, composed, meticulously crafted, though it never reached his eyes. A perfected mask, giving nothing away and offering even less.

Upon reaching the designated door, he paused briefly before pressing it open, only to be met by an unpleasantly sticky resistance against his glove. His eyes narrowed subtly, a flicker of displeasure briefly disturbing his otherwise flawlessly placid countenance. Blood. Dried, yet recent enough to offend. How charming. He immediately made a mental note—Fontaine leather demanded specialized solvents—to send the gloves for thorough cleaning, and another note still: to discover precisely which incompetent fool had neglected something as simple as sanitizing a doorknob prior to a Harbinger’s arrival. Yet another reason to detest places such as this.

As the door clicked softly shut behind him, Pantalone’s gaze finally settled upon you. Utterly ordinary. You sat there, wrists shackled securely to the metal desk, posture slouched—not in defiance, but in sheer exhaustion. Your nose had clearly been broken, a crude souvenir bestowed by less sophisticated hands among Fatui interrogators, dried blood still crusting around your nostrils, half-heartedly wiped but never truly cleaned. Your hair hung tangled, wild strands matted together with sweat and blood, a stark contrast to the meticulous order he cultivated around himself. Your expression carried a strange blend of boredom, pain, and faint irritation—as though you were enduring a tedious appointment rather than facing charges of economic treason against the Tsaritsa’s own empire. Then, slowly, you lifted your eyes to meet his, and from your cracked lips came a peculiar sound—a fractured half-laugh, somewhere between bitter amusement and a strangled sob. Absurdity clung to the air like the lingering smoke of extinguished candles. Pantalone blinked once, deliberately. There was no elegance here, no mystique or practiced aura of menace—just an ordinary citizen, bruised by state violence, chained and bloodied, yet possessing the tired audacity to appear entirely unimpressed. And perhaps… that was precisely the point.

The broken nose had evidently landed as it would on any common soul dragged from the streets. You hadn’t been trained to withstand pain, hadn't been hardened for interrogation—yet here you sat, having single-handedly toppled the economic foundations of an entire nation with little more than an easy smile and deftly forged signatures. He exhaled slowly through his nose, almost amused by the stark simplicity of it. Surrounded as he was by Harbingers, agents sculpted by steel, visions, and ruthless discipline, he'd nearly forgotten how ordinary people wore their suffering. Still, he refrained from judgment. After all, his own strength was not forged through battle or brutality—it had been shaped from numbers, contracts, and the quiet, ruthless manipulation of power. He'd never needed fists or violence when words alone could inflict wounds far deeper and more enduring. To mock you now would be hypocrisy. Instead, he moved forward silently, deliberately, approaching this encounter as though it were merely another business negotiation rather than a long-overdue reckoning.

“Can’t believe the Regrator himself came to see me.” Your voice was rough, distorted slightly by swelling, lending your words a faintly comical, nasal quality—but the biting sarcasm remained unmistakable. “Now that’s an achievement and a half.”

Pantalone didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he regarded you quietly, his expression unreadable behind thin-rimmed glasses, eyes glinting faintly in the harsh interrogation lights. His hands, still encased in those finely tailored gloves stained with another’s dried blood, rested casually upon the back of the empty chair opposite you.

“If imprisonment in a state cell constitutes an achievement,” he remarked softly, voice smooth and dangerously polite, “then yes, indeed—you've accomplished a great deal.”

His words hung in the air, deceptively gentle yet weighted with icy menace. He took his time pulling out the chair and settling gracefully into it, each movement precise, calculated, as deliberate as the stroke of a pen signing a contract. He didn't lean forward; he didn't have to.

“Now,” he continued, voice remaining calm, velvet-edged yet steely beneath, “I hear you’ve been feeding my subordinates and interrogators… lies.” He smiled slowly then—a thin, deliberate curve of his lips devoid of warmth, chilling the room further with its subtle cruelty. “If you possess even a shred of self-preservation, I suggest you speak the truth from this point onward. Waste my time again, and your death will not only be inevitable—it will be excruciatingly slow.”

He paused, allowing the threat to settle like frost upon your skin. “Believe me. I have my ways.”

That frozen smile remained, a polished veneer thinly disguising the violence simmering beneath. You blinked at him, strangely unfazed. Then, slowly, you shrugged your shoulders—a movement hindered by the cuffs yet utterly defiant in its casual indifference.

“I didn’t lie about a thing,” you rasped. Your voice cracked slightly at the end—not out of fear, but simply from damage inflicted by rough handling earlier. Yet the audacity remained undimmed, luminous and compelling in its quiet confidence.

“But sure,” you added, leaning back in your chair as far as restraints allowed, the chains clinking softly in the oppressive silence. “Go on. Ask your questions.”

It wasn’t defiance, exactly; it was quieter, deeper. More dangerous. A calmness he had not anticipated—and now, whether you knew it or not, you commanded the Regrator’s full, undivided attention.

His subordinates had not been entirely misguided. The tales you spun were, by any rational measure, absurd. Implausible. A narrative so tenuously woven that it bordered on the fantastical. How had you managed such a feat? How had a solitary figure orchestrated such an elaborate scheme right under the vigilant gaze of the Fatui—under his watchful eye? He had inquired, of course, in his typically frosty, methodical manner.

“Who are your connections?” he had pressed, expecting to unravel a network of co-conspirators.

Yet, your response was infuriatingly simplistic, "I don’t have any. Not ones who knew who they were working with, anyway.” That assertion alone ought to have sounded alarms. Individuals like you did not typically operate solo, not on such a grand scale, not with such surgical precision.

But as he meticulously pieced together the breadcrumb trail leading to your capture, the situation began to coalesce into a grimly coherent picture. His team had not apprehended you through sheer analytical prowess. They had not meticulously traced your financial transactions nor decrypted your coded communications. Rather, they had blundered into your shadow, propelled by a series of fortuitous mishaps. It had started with a thief—a desperate, petty soul who had pilfered a stack of misplaced documents from the wrong desk at the most inopportune moment. An eagle-eyed analyst under Pantalone’s employ had remembered a discrepancy in an old ledger, recognized the handwriting, and posed the crucial question. The clerk in question was interrogated, and he revealed the information on the stolen documents, and a thief was found guilty of the crime by investigating the location. Under duress, the thief pointed them toward an underground guild known for fencing such stolen items. From this seedy nexus, another name surfaced—a middleman who had been compensated, to submit requests on behalf of an anonymous client. This intermediary knew nothing substantial, save for the punctuality of his payments and the explicit nature of his instructions.

The connection to you was made only because this middleman had once been observed conversing with you in a dimly lit tavern. A loquacious barkeep, emboldened by drink, had offhandedly mentioned your name. That was the fragile filament that led to your downfall, as your name was, unfortunately, in the fatui's criminal records for petty crimes. It wasn’t due to incompetence or negligence on your part. Merely… ill fortune. This realization gnawed at Pantalone. You were no novice flailing in the dark, hoping to strike a mark. You were methodical, calculated, designed to be a phantom. Your strategies were so thoroughly insulated, so exquisitely compartmentalized, that even now, as you sat directly before him, he found himself unable to fully discern the true extent of the monstrosity lurking behind your unassuming facade. Pantalone’s gaze lingered on you a fraction longer—careful, assessing, dissecting every detail of your battered visage and your unsettlingly calm demeanor. The dismissiveness in your voice, the ease with which you bore your injuries, and that intolerable, casual insolence—it grated sharply against the meticulously ordered structure of his world.

"If you truly had no connections," he began softly, fingers steepling with deliberate precision, "then explain to me: how exactly did you convince nearly every socialite in Snezhnaya to pour mora into this farce?"

Your lips curled upward into a slow smile, tinted by blood and an unmistakable pride. "I did three things." Leaning forward just slightly, you allowed the interrogation lamp’s shadowy glow to carve out the hollows of your bruised cheekbone. "First, I took a part-time job at a laundromat frequented by nobility. Silks, furs, imported velvets—names you’d recognize instantly, if I said them aloud."

"Second, I picked up a few shifts at a jewelry boutique in the business quarter. Exclusive, discreet. The sort of establishment patronized by wives while their husbands squandered mora over drinks and state contracts."

"And then… I borrowed." A spark ignited in your gaze—mischievous, bordering on dangerous. "I borrowed gowns. I borrowed jewels. And I paid a prostitute to infiltrate their extravagant little gatherings—some held within noble estates, others nestled comfortably in the very outer wings of Zapolyarny Palace itself."

You paused briefly—not from hesitation, but for effect. The Regrator’s eyes narrowed fractionally, signaling his silent acknowledgment.

"I taught her the language of investments," you continued, voice calm, steady, meticulously chosen words dripping like honeyed poison. "Just enough to make her convincing. And as for the rest?" You chuckled dryly, wincing slightly from the ache in your broken nose. "A courtesan requires no instruction on stroking a man’s ego. Such talents come naturally."

Pantalone remained silent, expression carefully neutral—yet you could sense the subtle shift in his bearing, the almost imperceptible stillness in his hands. You were intriguing him.

"I wrote her notes," you went on, pressing your advantage calmly. "Detailed. Believable. Multiple investment opportunities—some genuine, others exaggerated. And of course, hidden neatly among them was mine. Lucrative, familiar… boring enough to feel utterly safe."

"And the invitations?" Pantalone inquired quietly now, voice measured, tone deceptively gentle.

Your smile widened—sharp, predatory. "I paid servants in noble households to slip a mild concoction into their master’s meals. Nothing deadly—merely potent enough to confine them briefly to bed. A different estate each time, of course."

"And then?"

"And then," you concluded smoothly, "I had the servants retrieve the discarded invitations. Nobles prize exclusivity—but once attendance becomes impossible, their precious invitations become meaningless. Mere trash."

You leaned back, the cuffs rattling softly in the tense silence, savoring the pause before delivering your final words:

"Isn’t it amusing, Lord Harbinger, what can be accomplished with merely a few hundred mora?"

Silence stretched tautly between you—sharp, resonant, suspended like the last note of a stringed instrument played softly in an empty hall.

"And why the steel industry?" Pantalone asked finally, the tone subtly shifting from clinical inquiry toward genuine curiosity. It wasn’t a trap or a challenge. It was an authentic question—an admission that you had achieved something remarkable enough to demand explanation.

You tilted your head thoughtfully, then shrugged gently, as though the answer should’ve been glaringly obvious.

"One must read the Articles of Association for publicly registered Snezhnayan businesses," you began evenly. Despite your battered visage, your voice remained steady, precise, elegantly controlled. "Among the clauses regarding shareholder rights, there lies a small, subtle detail—easily missed."

Your smile was faint, but your gaze now sharpened—a glint of cold calculation dancing within your eyes.

"Businesses receiving Fatui investment gain preferential consideration for government contracts—this much is common knowledge. But hidden deeper, in the dense, tedious fine print, is a small auxiliary clause: Fatui-backed enterprises are subject to internal audits, not external."

You paused deliberately, allowing that fact to settle into the quiet tension between you. Pantalone remained silent, the glint behind his spectacles sharpening perceptibly.

"And while, on paper, these internal audits are exhaustive," you continued smoothly, your bruised lips curled into a confident half-smile, "in reality, enforcement is... lax, reserved only for unusual spikes in profit or growth."

Another pause, measured and deliberate.

"I did my research. Public records are easily accessible at any respectable Snezhnayan archive. A few afternoons spent buried in documents was all it took. I isolated sectors receiving Fatui backing—those least scrutinized, most structurally vulnerable."

You inclined your head slightly, eyes bright with restrained triumph. "Steel… was perfect."

"Modest. Unassuming. Necessary enough to warrant state subsidies, yet never glamorous enough to draw undue attention. With weapon production steadily rising, the steel sector practically begged for new ventures eager to absorb state-backed funding."

Your voice dropped subtly, leaning forward just enough to draw him into your whispered revelation. "Besides—who would suspect a scam hidden right inside your own house?"

The ensuing silence stretched tautly, heavy and suffocating—like deep snow blanketing fields already laden with secrets.

Pantalone remained perfectly still, not out of shock or disbelief, but careful contemplation. He had meticulously built a system designed to serve him unquestioningly, to follow his every silent command. And yet, here you sat—an intruder who had casually walked in wearing borrowed finery, clutching falsified signatures, and reflecting his own designs back at him. Not a flaw in the system. A mirror. Slowly, for the first time since entering the room, his carefully maintained smile faded into quiet, thoughtful neutrality.

"Hmm." His fingertips tapped softly against the table—methodical, rhythmic, like a meticulously wound clock ticking toward inevitability. His gaze settled fully upon you, colder now, edged like honed steel.

"And how," he finally asked, voice measured, softly dangerous, "did you manage to list your fabricated business in official records? Produce audits so pristine they passed even my meticulous scrutiny?"

No anger colored his tone—only a profound, clinical curiosity, precisely sharpened like a surgeon’s scalpel. "I never invest in anything short of flawless authenticity," he added coolly, almost quietly. "So explain precisely—how did you fabricate something that even I believed was real?"

You answered him with a crooked, blood-tinged grin, eyes glittering in bruised defiance.

"Simple," you said softly, a single word mocking the entirety of the empire he’d built. "I hired a man with a Dendro Vision—someone who specialized in perception manipulation, capable of creating finely controlled hallucinations."

You delivered this information casually, plainly—like speaking about mundane weather rather than admitting high treason.

"I found him operating within the narcotic underworld. Not difficult, if you know which suppliers to trail. Vision holders might be rare, but desperation makes them accessible. He claimed his illusions were refined enough to fool even trained minds, impossible to distinguish from reality."

"And you trusted such a boast?" Pantalone queried evenly, eyebrow subtly arching.

Your smile widened faintly—pride rather than arrogance, quiet certainty rather than bravado.

"I tested him personally," you admitted without hesitation. "I paid him to craft a comprehensive illusion—a fully operational facility, complete with machinery, laborers, documentation. Heat, sound, even scent. Everything the senses expected from an active industrial site."

You leaned forward, voice lowered conspiratorially, gaze unwaveringly locked onto his. "Your auditors arrived, walked through, saw everything, documented everything, and departed satisfied. And yet…" your words slowed, savoring each syllable, "in reality, there was nothing."

Silence now fell differently—denser, charged, the strained calm between drawn blades awaiting the inevitable first strike. Pantalone didn't blink. Of course, he knew about Dendro-based narcotics; he himself had invested heavily in controlling the shadowed markets that whispered of such rare delights. But to wield such a substance not as indulgent vice, but as a precise corporate weapon? This was boldness bordering on madness. Audacious. Unprecedented. And unsettlingly effective.

"As for the public records," you continued casually, as if discussing nothing more significant than afternoon tea, "I simply forged the signature of one of your own office clerks."

Pantalone’s eyes narrowed fractionally, a barely perceptible movement—but enough to convey his sharpened focus. Yet he offered no interruption, only listened, patient as a serpent awaiting the perfect moment to strike.

"I had someone—several someones, in fact—steal documents directly from his desk. Letters, memos, old requisition forms. Enough handwriting samples to mimic his style with meticulous accuracy." You waved a cuffed hand lazily, chains clinking faintly at your wrists, the motion casual, indifferent. "But of course, you already knew this. That minor slip—that single misplaced folder—is what unraveled the entire illusion."

You smiled again—not in shame, not even in guilt, but with quiet, weary irony. "It wasn’t even my thief who ruined everything. It was your own subordinate’s error. He misplaced the paperwork, grew frightened, and kept silent. And from there, the dominoes fell, one by painstaking one."

Your gaze flickered toward him, measuring his reaction. "Unfortunate." You savored the word carefully, allowing it to linger, heavy with implication.

"But the actual execution?" you continued, voice smoothly calm. "That was simplicity itself. I delivered those forged documents exactly as your clerk would have. Straight to your assistant’s personal residence, slipped seamlessly among the day’s routine paperwork."

You gestured lightly toward some unseen figure—a faceless pawn within Pantalone’s vast, sprawling bureaucracy. "They saw nothing amiss. Signed off without question. Stamped, registered, neatly filed away as entirely legitimate."

You leaned forward just slightly, your bloodied smile persisting stubbornly, quietly victorious. "That," you whispered softly, "was all it took."

For a moment, silence filled the room, broken only by the faint, persistent hum of the overhead lamp and the subtle creak of expensive leather as Pantalone reclined, absorbing the weight of your revelation. You hadn’t breached the fortress of Snezhnaya’s most powerful financial institution with force, nor armies, nor even a Vision. You’d simply used a stolen pen and precisely the right envelope.

"And how," Pantalone finally asked, voice once more dangerously calm, fingertips steepled in careful contemplation, "did those meticulously filed documents vanish overnight… precisely after you disappeared with the mora?"

His tone had cooled further—not in anger, but something infinitely more dangerous. Absolute, razor-sharp focus.

You tilted your head slightly, the faintest of smirks playing at the corner of your cracked, blood-stained lips. "Ah. That part was easy." Your words fell plainly, devoid of guilt or bravado—merely clear-eyed honesty. "I sent a letter."

You paused deliberately, letting the weight of that confession settle into the charged silence. "An anonymous letter. Polite. Nicely worded. More a warning than a threat, really."

Shifting subtly in your seat, you winced slightly as the cuffs bit against your skin, the chains pulling taut. "I addressed it to the clerk whose signature I forged. I wrote: ‘It’s your name on those documents. Next week, I intend to scam billions of mora from very powerful individuals. If those files remain… well, I imagine your employer won’t be pleased.'"

Your gaze locked firmly with his, your smile unmoving, defiant in its calm certainty. "Fear handled the rest."

Another beat of silence, heavier now, more dangerous.

"Burning evidence," you added softly, conversationally, "is practically a reflex in a place like yours. Those near the bottom don’t wait for orders. They panic. They scramble to clean the mess, hoping desperately that no one important will ever notice."

Your lips twisted faintly upward. "And it almost worked."

You leaned back, savoring the word that hung bitterly between you both. Almost. Pantalone remained motionless. Unblinking. Yet beneath that carefully sculpted mask of composure, something shifted, a quiet realization unfurling like smoke: You had manipulated more than just his systems. More than just his funding streams or bureaucratic machinery. You had manipulated his people. He had reviewed your dossier a dozen times before ever setting foot into this bleak interrogation chamber. Every detail had been meticulously examined—every seemingly trivial line, every minor offense, every incongruity that hinted at brilliance hidden beneath years of petty crimes and forgettable misdemeanors. Small scams. Street cons. Solicitation charges. Your record painted the picture of a wasted intellect, scattered across desperate gambits and fleeting, hollow victories. But this? This was no act of desperation—it was a carefully executed design. And that disturbed him more profoundly than he wished to admit. Why now? Why wait until this precise moment?

When he finally spoke, his voice was measured, quiet—dangerously soft. "And why," he asked, gaze piercing through your veneer of calm, "did you choose this moment, of all times, to make your move?"

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you offered him a slow, flat smile—joyless, disconnected. One that never reached your eyes. A smile he recognized intimately, having worn it himself countless times across different rooms, in different lifetimes.

"It’s personal business," you replied quietly, tone firm, closed like an iron lock rusted shut by years of silence. "Nothing important."

A casual shrug followed, careless but deliberate. "I simply didn’t feel like doing it until now."

That was all. No elaborate justification. No tragic backstory or ambitious manifesto. Merely… a choice. And somehow, the sheer simplicity of it interested him more deeply than anything else you’d revealed thus far. Pantalone leaned back fractionally in his chair, a flicker of realization threading through his thoughts—thin, sharp, like silk through a needle. He had cleared two precious hours from his schedule for this interrogation. He despised interruptions. Loathed inefficiency. Yet this was neither wasted time nor meaningless distraction. You were something else entirely. Not a waste. Far from it. You were rare. Cold. Pragmatic. Flexible. Dangerous. And perhaps, above all else… Profitable.

"I have two options for you," he stated, words slicing through the stagnant air with surgical precision—quiet, polished, and utterly final.

Pantalone folded his hands neatly atop the table, thin-rimmed lenses reflecting the dim glow of the interrogation lamp. "Now that I have access to the mora you stole," he paused briefly, his polite smile sharpening just a fraction colder, "—though I must commend your foresight. Concealing your funds in an overseas Fontaine account rather than entrusting them to the Northland Bank… Clever, but ofcourse, that much is obvious to any decent scammer."

He inclined his head slightly, the gesture slow, deceptively thoughtful. "An admirable precaution. Particularly given your ignorance of just how deeply the Fatui’s influence penetrates Fontaine’s financial sectors."

Another pause. A quiet breath—weighted deliberately.

"But cleverness alone was not enough."

He allowed that stark truth to linger, an icy echo between you, before continuing calmly, relentlessly.

"And thus, the first option," he went on, tone unwavering, deadly calm. "Life imprisonment. I sign the decree, leave this room, and never think of you again. You rot quietly within these walls—forgotten, nameless. Merely another lost soul buried deep within the frozen machinery of Snezhnaya’s justice. A file left to gather dust."

His smile was too gentle to be genuine, too composed to be compassionate.

"Just like every other worthless fool this nation discards."

He leaned back incrementally, eyes never leaving yours, allowing the silence to stretch tautly between you—watching intently for the slightest flinch, the faintest crack in your calm, any sign that the reality of his words had cut deeper than the pain already etched upon your face. But he wasn’t finished. Not yet. You would have gotten away with laundering the mora, too—had your opponent been anyone but him. Pantalone was no fool. He had studied your movements the way one might observe a chessboard—methodically, patiently, examining each subtle maneuver until the grand strategy revealed itself. The moment your name had surfaced, he had asked himself the simplest, most dangerous question: If it had been me, where would I hide the mora?

The answer had come instantly, obvious in its poetic irony—Fontaine, the Nation of Justice. With its countless banks, obsessive regulations, and pristine, immaculate façades masking something much simpler beneath: greed. Fontaine, like any nation, was merely a gilded vault—a hundred hidden keys tucked behind a polished veneer of order. Only a select handful of banks could manage such substantial transactions quietly, discreetly enough to avoid undue scrutiny, securely enough to prevent prying eyes from noticing. It had taken him little time. Merely a touch of classic Fatui persuasion—quiet conversations held in elegant drawing rooms, porcelain shattered on polished floors, courteous smiles splattered with blood upon costly imported rugs.

Of course, the bank owners cracked. They always did. And once they did, they willingly surrendered everything: account numbers, transaction trails, and undeniable proof. Fascinating, truly. Your choices had aligned so precisely with his own instincts that he couldn’t help but feel a grudging admiration. The logic, discretion, and elegance of your actions were remarkable. You had moved like a phantom through corridors he himself had once navigated with effortless mastery. It was a testament to the brilliance of your mind—a mirror held up to his own past cunning. A pity, he thought distantly, that such intellect had remained hidden so long.

"That," Pantalone continued, voice smooth, silken as ever, "or—" He leaned forward slightly, polite smile unwavering, "you may choose to work for me. As my personal assistant."

He phrased it as an offer, but both of you understood it was not—it was a command, wrapped delicately in decorative silk.

"Considering your intellect, your... initiative," he remarked softly, voice faintly amused, almost appreciative, "there is significant potential here. Brilliance like yours deserves refinement—sharpened, honed, shaped into something far more... useful."

A pause, deliberate and cruel.

"Unpaid, naturally," he added pleasantly, his cold smile unflinching. "You did, after all, abscond with quite a substantial sum from my coffers. Actions, as we know, always have consequences. Forgiveness, my dear, is never free."

He rose slowly, fluidly, smoothing invisible creases from his impeccable coat, each movement calculated, meticulous. "You will be provided Fatui-sanctioned accommodations. Under strict surveillance, naturally—considering your newfound notoriety."

He turned back to you, his gaze unreadable now, veiled behind the mask of a composed Harbinger, every emotion replaced with ruthless calculation. "And as for your record—the fraud, the scams, the petty misdemeanors—I shall erase them entirely."

He placed a gloved hand upon the door handle, pausing briefly before stepping into the corridor. His voice dropped to a soft murmur, carrying clearly through the silence.

"Your freedom, your past, your very future—all wiped clean, traded simply in exchange for unwavering loyalty."

A beat passed, tense and suffocating.

"Your choice."

Then that same cold, elegant smile returned, precise as a blade drawn from its sheath.

"As always, I would advise you to choose wisely."

You simply stared at him for a heartbeat, then snorted softly, wincing sharply from the pain as a quiet, broken laugh slipped through your bruised lips.

"I see my elevator pitch worked perfectly," you remarked dryly, your tone so confident, so casually self-assured, it was as though you had planned this outcome from the very start. "I'm almost surprised."

There are no problems in this world that cannot be solved by a sword. Or at least, that was Ajax’s personal philosophy—one he wholeheartedly endorsed, usually at the business end of said sword. Steel clashed with the melodious charm of a badly-tuned harp, and the sharp ringing of blades reverberated through the snow-drenched alleys of Snezhnaya. Blood splattered cheerfully like crimson confetti onto pristine white snow—festive, really, if you asked Ajax. Standing amid this picturesque carnage was the fourteen-year-old himself, breathing heavily, his breath puffing out in rhythmic clouds as though he’d just sprinted a mile in a blizzard—which, considering the hulking figure currently sprawled at his feet, wasn’t far from the truth.

He glanced down at the groaning lump of brute muscle that used to call itself his opponent. Twice his size and twice as stupid, the man had charged like an enraged boar and fallen with similar grace. Ajax couldn't suppress the smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. Pathetic. Honestly, a bit insulting.

“Really?” Ajax muttered, nudging the unconscious man with his foot as if checking produce at a market stall. “You didn’t even last through the warm-up.”

Survival of the fittest—wasn't that the unspoken law of the land? Ajax believed this wholeheartedly, carving it into his bones with every bruised knuckle and scuffed knee he earned from endless street brawls. But just as he began mentally preparing a victory speech (something short, humble, and definitely containing the words 'you're welcome'), the frigid, familiar bark of his father echoed through the narrow alley, colder than a Snezhnayan winter.

“You foolish boy! I’m sending you off to the Fatui. Let them beat some discipline into you!”

Ah, parental love at its finest. Ajax's hand twitched instinctively toward the knife on his belt, then thought better of it. Stabbing one's father—he imagined—was generally frowned upon, even here in Snezhnaya, though admittedly only slightly. Family dinners would certainly become awkward afterward. So he bit back his retort and swallowed his pride, tasting bitter humility in place of the usual coppery tang of victory. Ajax adored his family—perhaps even enough to endure the upcoming lecture without making sarcastic remarks (well, maybe one or two wouldn't hurt). He sighed dramatically, offering a murmured apology that felt more rehearsed than sincere.

“Sorry,” he mumbled half-heartedly, “next time I’ll let the brute win.”

His father, predictably, didn't laugh—didn't even seem to hear. Ajax considered briefly if his old man had finally gone deaf, or if perhaps selective hearing was just another charming family trait. It was official, then: his own father was shipping him off to the Fatui to learn "discipline." Ajax wasn’t entirely sure what that entailed, but he hoped it involved less nagging and more stabbing. After all, he'd always been an optimist.

Ajax’s gaze wandered down to his hands—scarred, calloused, and still bearing faint splashes of crimson like morbid souvenirs. He considered wiping them clean, but honestly, what was the point? It wasn't as if they would remain spotless for long. Besides, deep down, he already knew that at the very next whisper of a fight, he'd eagerly dive headfirst back into chaos. Because even if the Fatui thought they could tame him—mold him like some manageable lump of clay—there was something feral curled up deep in his chest, snarling and scratching to escape. Ajax doubted even the most relentless drill sergeant could beat that wildness out of him.

Which was exactly why he found himself now sitting painfully straight-backed on a stiff wooden bench at a Fatui training camp, bored out of his ever-loving mind. As it turned out, his father hadn't been bluffing—an impressive first, Ajax thought dryly. The Fatui recruiter had sized him up with the practiced disdain of someone appraising a particularly disappointing catch at the fish market. After a long silence, the recruiter had pronounced his judgment: Ajax “needed training.”

Training. Ajax nearly scoffed aloud at the idea. As if survival hadn’t already been lovingly beaten into him with every brawl, every scraped knee, every hard-earned bruise. Sure, he’d disagreed. Loudly, with passionate eloquence. Unfortunately, he'd kept it all firmly inside his head, settling instead for clenching his jaw and staring defiantly at the distant horizon. Mainly because his father’s piercing gaze was locked onto him like a stubborn frostbite—cold, relentless, and impossible to ignore. Fatui policy, the man had said. They wanted well-behaved, polished recruits, tidily packaged and stamped like high-quality merchandise. Ajax snorted inwardly at the absurdity. If they'd expected polished, they had obviously summoned the wrong boy.

What good were orderly drills, mind-numbing lectures, and flawless formations anyway? He’d already learned everything worthwhile from harsher teachers—the Abyss had been especially instructive, not to mention delightfully creative in its methods. What could these trainers possibly teach him that he hadn't already perfected in the bloody alleyways of Morespok? He'd left men twice his size sprawled on icy cobblestones, whimpering apologies into pools of their own blood—men who'd tried and failed spectacularly at intimidating fishermen out of their day's wages. Ajax didn't need to be taught survival. Survival practically begged him for pointers at this stage.

Yet here he sat, forced into restless stillness, fingers twitching involuntarily toward the familiar weight of a blade that wasn’t there. He longed for the comforting chaos of combat, to prove—yet again—his methods were superior. But each time his foot shifted impatiently or his shoulders threatened to slump in boredom, the heavy, razor-sharp glare of his father bore into him, pulling him firmly back into his seat like an invisible leash. Ajax ground his molars together in frustration, feeling dangerously close to gnawing straight through his tongue.

Maybe discipline meant something else in Fatui language—perhaps “sitting perfectly still and pretending you enjoy it.” If so, Ajax concluded dryly, he was definitely not fluent.

No easy excuses this time. No impulsive idiots to conveniently bait into a fight without consequence. Not even a shadowed alleyway nearby to casually slip into afterward. Ajax scowled, shifted impatiently, and sat—forced into miserable stillness, boredom crawling under his skin like ants at a picnic. All the while, the restless storm beneath his ribs churned with growing impatience, practically begging for someone—anyone—to provide him with a proper outlet.

Then again, it wasn’t as if this was his first Fatui training camp experience. In fact, Ajax mused with grim pride, it was number five—practically worthy of an award by now. “Most Transfers Earned by Excessive Violence,” perhaps. He’d proudly hang that certificate on his wall, if only to annoy his father.

Camp number one had ended spectacularly, with Ajax honestly not intending to nearly kill that arrogant fool who’d cornered and mocked him. But, when the buffoon had puffed up his chest and sneered down at Ajax as if mocking a child made him some sort of hero, Ajax hadn’t hesitated. He’d insulted him first, naturally—pointing out the inherent weakness of bullying someone smaller. Predictably, the man hadn’t taken the criticism gracefully. People never seemed to handle being confronted with their own stupidity well. By the time the dust settled and blood turned the training yard into modern art, Ajax had lost count of precisely how many bones he’d broken.

The second camp fared no better. Sure, they'd boasted higher expectations and stricter captains—but unfortunately for them, Ajax's personal standards were stricter still. Within days, he'd neatly mopped the floor with the squad leader during a sparring match, landing hits faster and sharper than the trainers could bark warnings. Ajax felt he'd made his point clearly: if pummeling their toughest captain senseless didn’t scream "none of you are competent enough to train me," he honestly didn't know what did.

The third and fourth camps blurred together in a rather tedious montage of broken bones, exasperated superiors, stern lectures, and increasingly annoyed looks from his father. Different trainers, different faces—but Ajax barely noticed anymore. They all ended the same way: another transfer, another sour conversation, and another round of painfully predictable disappointment from the old man.

And now here he was, arriving fashionably late at camp number five. But this one… this one felt almost like an elaborate joke. As he eyed the recruits around him, Ajax wondered dryly if the Fatui had finally gotten desperate. These "soldiers-in-training" looked younger—some exactly his age, others even younger still. Smaller, softer faces blinked curiously back at him, clearly untouched by the kind of brutal survival he'd grown up perfecting. He caught snatches of their whispered conversations drifting in the air like smoke, idle gossip he hadn't asked for and certainly didn’t care about. Apparently, these recruits came primarily from somewhere called the House of the Hearth.

An orphanage, Ajax gathered. A Fatui-run charity, supposedly. The name made him wrinkle his nose slightly—it sounded less like an orphanage and more like a bakery for overpriced pies. A shining beacon of Fatui "generosity," no doubt strategically advertised to the common folk of Snezhnaya. Ajax rolled his eyes internally; leave it to the Fatui to sugarcoat conscription with such annoyingly cheerful branding.

Wonderful. Just wonderful. He’d gone from thrashing grown men twice his size to being lumped in with a bunch of wide-eyed orphans and charity cases.

If this was the Fatui’s grand scheme to finally break him, Ajax concluded silently, he might die laughing first.

Ajax wondered bitterly what these recruits truly were beneath the surface. Orphans, sure—but were they also rejects? Strays gathered conveniently under the Fatui’s wing, trained like obedient lapdogs to jump at commands and beg for scraps of approval? Had someone purposefully placed him here, hoping to dull his edge by surrounding him with people who wouldn’t dare challenge him? Ajax’s fingers curled into tight fists at his sides, nails pressing angry crescents into his palms. He honestly couldn’t decide if he should laugh at their stupidity or simply set a personal record in dismantling yet another Fatui camp.

“Oi. Get in line for food distribution. Or do you not want lunch?”

The voice abruptly jerked Ajax from his thoughts, sharp, dismissive, and irritatingly familiar in tone—exactly the sort of voice begging to be punched, really. He glanced upward lazily, locking eyes with a boy maybe a year or two older than himself. Broad-shouldered, wearing that annoyingly bored expression of someone assigned a chore they couldn’t be bothered with, arms crossed in a way that practically screamed authority—misplaced, undeserved authority, if you asked Ajax.

The older recruit scoffed lightly, a faint puff of irritation, as if Ajax’s mere existence was somehow offensive, a stain on an otherwise orderly routine. Ajax felt a surge of indignation rise sharply inside him. He didn’t appreciate that tone, didn’t enjoy being regarded like something small and insignificant, to be brushed aside like an inconvenient speck of dirt.

Ajax leaned back, deliberately languid, draping himself over the bench in exaggerated boredom. But beneath his seemingly casual stance, his eyes sharpened like twin shards of ice, gleaming with barely concealed hostility. “What,” Ajax drawled slowly, voice dripping sarcasm, “does basic politeness physically pain you, or did no one bother teaching it to you? Ah, wait—right, you're probably an orphan, aren’t you?”

Subtlety clearly wasn't Ajax's forte; it never had been. His jab was sharp, cruel, and carefully calculated—the kind of insult that typically caused immediate flare-ups, sometimes even punches flying his way. Ajax braced himself eagerly, already anticipating the fight that might finally break this unbearable monotony.

But annoyingly, infuriatingly, the boy didn’t even blink.

“Right. Funny,” he muttered flatly, unimpressed. “Get your ass up, or you’re not getting lunch.”

Ajax stared blankly for a second, almost offended at the sheer lack of reaction. The boy didn’t sound angry, didn’t seem ruffled in the slightest. Instead, his voice held that frustrating, utterly indifferent note, as though Ajax’s words were nothing more than an irritating buzz—like he was simply another spoiled kid needing guidance and nothing more. Ajax’s carefully constructed smirk twitched slightly at the corner, his irritation rising from an annoyed simmer to a dangerously close boil. He’d handled plenty of arrogance, met plenty of condescension head-on, but this felt different. This was outright dismissal, something Ajax took personally—and poorly.

He felt his pulse quicken, restlessness clawing at his skin. It had already been two entire days since his last proper fight, two miserable days without that familiar adrenaline-laced thrill racing through his veins. Two days without the electric satisfaction of blade meeting flesh, the rush of watching opponents realize too late they’d underestimated him. Two whole days—and Ajax was already nearly crawling out of his skin. If this older recruit thought boredom and dismissive glances would tame him, Ajax decided with cold amusement, he was about to receive an extremely unpleasant education.

Clearly, the Fatui’s so-called "elite training regimen" was a load of absolute nonsense. Ajax had braced himself for thrilling battles—imagined harsh training fields echoing with screams, orders barked through storms of arrows, adrenaline pounding in his veins. Instead, here he sat, babysitting. Babysitting literal children, or so they felt to him (the irony was not lost on him, considering he technically fit neatly into that category himself). Yet somehow, these recruits seemed softer, duller, less… alive. No spark, no challenge, no excitement. Just endless drills, monotonous routine, and soul-sucking boredom—he was almost tempted to start trouble just to escape the unending tedium.

Ajax’s narrowed gaze drifted back to the boy from earlier—that irritating brat who’d looked down his nose at him, as if Ajax were merely an inconvenience cluttering his precious, ordered day. That dismissive tone, that bland stare, still scratched at his mind like a rusted blade. Maybe, Ajax thought, lips twitching into a cold smirk, if he gave that arrogant jerk a proper beating, the Fatui would finally realize—yet again—that he simply wasn’t cut out for this particular babysitting assignment. Perhaps another delightful transfer would follow. Maybe this time they'd send him somewhere interesting. Ajax rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar itch sparking up from his knuckles to his spine. Fine. If no one here had the guts to give him a proper fight, he’d create his own opportunities.

It took barely a half-hearted insult to get things moving. Ajax had the older boy by the collar before he could blink, fist clenched, muscles coiled tight, ready to send him sprawling. Predictably, the kid wasn’t much of a fighter—sluggish, slow-footed, practically begging Ajax to send him face-first into the dirt. This was disappointingly easy, almost embarrassingly effortless. Already, Ajax was mentally congratulating himself, imagining the priceless expression on the captain’s face when yet another recruit was found sprawled unconscious. Another transfer incoming in three, two—

Suddenly, his vision lurched wildly, the world spinning upside down. A jarring impact knocked the breath clean out of his lungs, and before he knew what was happening, Ajax found himself staring blankly at the gray, freezing sky of Snezhnaya. The ground beneath him was painfully cold, his back aching, his head throbbing dully like he’d been kicked by a horse.

Wait—had he just blacked out?

Ajax blinked dazedly, squinting upward, trying to piece together exactly how he'd gone from smug predator to pavement decoration in mere seconds. As he struggled to sit up, a shadow fell neatly across him, boots stopping only inches from his face, annoyingly composed.

“Oh? You woke up fast enough.”

The voice was entirely unfamiliar—calm, clipped, almost bored. Ajax’s head snapped sharply upward, eyes narrowing into an angry glare sharp enough to cut steel. Standing above him wasn’t the annoying boy he'd planned to flatten—but instead, a girl. Roughly his age, posture relaxed, expression unreadable, as though flooring cocky new recruits was simply another tedious daily chore. Ajax bristled immediately, irritation mixing with confusion.

You.

“What the hell just happened?” he spat out, voice gritty and tight with a combination of confusion and annoyance, a dull ache thumping rhythmically behind his eyes. Had someone clubbed him over the head with a brick? A frying pan? A rock? How had he completely missed it?

You tilted your head slightly, calm eyes assessing him with detached amusement. “I knocked you out,” you explained casually, tone entirely unconcerned, as though you’d done nothing more significant than sweeping up dirt. “Insubordination,” you added helpfully, as if it was a perfectly normal justification. You shrugged one shoulder elegantly. “Now get up. Go line up for lunch.”

Ajax stared at you blankly, disbelief written across his face. Lunch? Lunch?! He'd just been flattened by some girl he hadn't even noticed moments ago, and she was talking about lunch? Was this a joke? Still, despite the humiliation burning hot in his gut, something else stirred—a flicker of intrigued excitement, a curious new spark amidst all this suffocating dullness. Maybe this camp wasn’t going to be quite as boring as he'd thought.

Dinner was… interesting.

Ajax hadn't noticed you during lunch—he'd still been nursing the dull ache throbbing in the back of his skull, his pride limping behind him like a wounded animal. He’d barely registered anything, too preoccupied replaying the embarrassing scene in his mind, irritation clinging to him like frostbite. Now, at dinner, you were impossible to miss. Sitting casually across the bustling mess hall, you seemed utterly unbothered, surrounded by a cluster of recruits orbiting you like moons around a particularly self-assured planet. Annoyingly, you didn’t even look commanding—no barked orders, no rigid posture. Just relaxed confidence, as if authority naturally gravitated to you without effort.

That irritated Ajax more than it probably should have. His glare sharpened over the rim of his tin cup, scowling at the easy laughter bubbling around your table. Who did you think you were? He finally turned, begrudgingly acknowledging the recruit seated beside him. Ajax hadn't bothered learning anyone’s name yet; frankly, he hadn't cared enough to try. But curiosity gnawed at him, sharp and persistent enough that he swallowed his pride to ask.

“Who’s she?” he demanded bluntly, jerking his chin in your direction.

The recruit blinked, startled, before breaking into an amused smirk. “You seriously don’t know? Oh right—you’re the new guy.” He jabbed a thumb toward you, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “That’s Y/N. Pretty much royalty around here. Unofficial vice captain of the whole camp.”

Ajax frowned, interest reluctantly piqued. Vice captain? Unofficial? Sure, that explained the air of casual authority—but it hardly clarified how someone his age had managed to floor him without breaking a sweat.

The boy next to him extended a hand casually. “I'm Nikolay, by the way.”

Ajax shook his hand briefly, eyes still pinned to your distant figure. “Ajax,” he muttered distractedly. “So why exactly is she vice captain? Is she actually that strong?”

Nikolay snorted softly, chewing thoughtfully on a hunk of stale bread. “Calling her strong would be an understatement of epic proportions.”

He leaned in closer, voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper. “Rumor has it, she's the only recruit from the House of the Hearth being personally monitored by Arlecchino herself. Most think she's already earmarked for Harbinger potential.”

Ajax’s eyebrows rose sharply, genuine surprise flickering across his face. Harbinger potential was no casual praise; it was something reserved for prodigies or madmen. Ajax wasn’t sure which he’d prefer you to be.

Nikolay glanced around, confirming no eavesdroppers were lingering. “Oh, and fair warning: she’s a massive stickler for rules. Nothing escapes her notice, nothing slides. Some say she's ruthless beneath that casual act she puts on—just waiting for someone to give her a reason.”

Ajax tapped restless fingers against his tin cup, gaze narrowing thoughtfully as you laughed at something someone said, relaxed and infuriatingly confident. Rule enforcer. Potential Harbinger. Strong enough to knock him flat without so much as breaking stride. For the first time since arriving in this forsaken excuse for a training camp, something sparked beneath Ajax’s skin—a restless itch that had nothing to do with boredom and everything to do with the thrill of finally meeting someone worth fighting. He decided he needed answers, and he wasn't patient enough to wait for them to find him. Ajax started asking around—quietly at first, slipping casual questions into idle conversations, feigning mild curiosity. Then with increasingly less subtlety, cornering anyone who looked remotely informed. He needed clarity, needed to understand how someone his own age had effortlessly knocked him unconscious and had everyone here dancing obediently around her.

The rumors? They were… something else. Ajax had anticipated wild exaggerations—maybe a few harmless myths tossed around by bored kids—but nothing like this.

“Yeah, word is she duels with Arlecchino herself. Regularly. Like… every single week or something.”

Ajax blinked slowly, attempting to picture the sheer audacity of someone casually challenging the Knave on a weekly basis. That sounded less like a pastime and more like a creative form of suicide.

Another recruit leaned in, face gravely serious. “Forget duels. I heard she’s been personally invited to Harbinger meetings. You know, the super secret ones? No outsiders allowed? They apparently make an exception just for her.”

Ajax scoffed loudly, unable to suppress his skepticism. “You serious?”

The boy nodded solemnly, like he’d just divulged classified Fatui secrets. “Dead serious.”

Someone else shuffled forward eagerly, their voice lowering dramatically to a conspiratorial whisper. “Yeah, well, I heard she's already done covert spy missions for the Fatui—the type of stuff that officially 'never happened.' Real hush-hush. Super nefarious.”

“Nefarious,” Ajax echoed flatly, raising a disbelieving brow. “That’s… incredibly vague.”

The recruit shrugged defensively. “I dunno, that’s just what I heard.”

Then, a smaller boy with wide eyes and a flair for theatrics leaned even closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “My cousin swears she killed one of Dottore’s segments.”

Ajax froze, genuinely caught off guard. “She… what?”

“Yeah. Killed him,” the kid whispered dramatically, pausing for effect. “With a fork.”

Ajax stared at the kid blankly. “A fork,” he repeated, voice flat with disbelief.

The boy nodded rapidly, absolutely earnest. “Right in the eye. Threw it across a whole room. Didn’t even get up from her seat.”

Ajax narrowed his eyes suspiciously, wondering if the kid was just outright messing with him. “...That’s absurd.”

The boy gave a half-hearted shrug. “Hey, I'm just repeating what I heard.”

“Oh, and she punched me in the face once,” piped up another voice cheerfully from behind Ajax, causing him to swivel around sharply. A younger recruit stood there, grinning ear-to-ear and proudly rubbing his jaw like he’d received a medal rather than a fist. “Honestly, best moment of my life. I'd ask her to do it again, but I'm kinda worried she'll say yes.”

Ajax stared openly now, trying desperately to sort through the sheer chaos he'd just heard. What exactly had he stumbled into? Each rumor was more insane than the last, painting a picture of you as some mythological Fatui prodigy—some unstoppable whirlwind of talent and casual violence. Ajax would have laughed outright at the sheer absurdity, except the dull ache on the back of his skull still stubbornly protested otherwise. You had knocked him out cold. Effortlessly. Like swatting a particularly irritating insect. Maybe the rumors weren’t entirely fiction—though he sincerely doubted the fork thing (right?).

He rubbed at his temples with a weary sigh. He couldn’t decide whether he was impressed, suspicious, concerned, or some frustrating blend of all three. But there was one thing he was absolutely certain about: he had to know for himself exactly what you were capable of. No more exaggerations, no more gossip and hearsay. Ajax didn't settle for secondhand stories. If you were truly as dangerous and absurdly skilled as the whispers claimed, he intended to find out firsthand—even if it meant risking another painful, humiliating knockout.

Naturally, Ajax’s instinct was simple: challenge you to a duel.

It had gnawed at him all night—the ridiculous rumors, the infuriating nonchalance with which you shrugged off knocking him out, the absurd whispers about secret Harbinger meetings, Dottore’s segments, and forks (of all weapons). He needed answers. Ajax had always found clarity at the edge of a blade, and today would be no different. When individual training finally arrived the next day, he wasted no time. You stood calmly across the sparring yard, posture effortlessly relaxed yet sharp—like a blade casually sheathed, ready to cut at the first hint of trouble. Other recruits hovered at a cautious distance, wary eyes darting toward you as if approaching too close might earn them an immediate dismissal (or possibly a fork to the eye, if that particular rumor held any truth).

Ajax didn’t hesitate, crossing the snowy yard with deliberate strides, boots crunching loudly through icy powder. His heart pounded—not from nerves, but from exhilaration, the anticipation crackling like lightning beneath his ribs. You glanced up as he stopped abruptly in front of you, expression shifting into mild, patient curiosity. He didn't bother with pleasantries:

“Fight me.”

Blunt. Direct. Zero room for negotiation. You blinked once, head tilting slightly as though he’d just casually asked for the time or directions to the latrine.

“Duel me,” Ajax repeated, voice harder, sharper, a reckless grin twisting at his lips. “Properly, this time. No sucker punches.”

You paused, then sighed softly, disappointingly unimpressed.

“This about me knocking you out yesterday?” you asked flatly, clearly bored by his bravado.

Ajax shrugged lazily, the arrogant tilt of his grin only growing sharper. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanna see if those ridiculous rumors actually hold up.”

Something flickered through your eyes—was that irritation, amusement, or just plain annoyance? Ajax couldn’t quite tell. He half-expected you to brush him off, to dismiss him with that infuriating casualness from before. Instead, you stepped back slightly, rolling your shoulders in an unhurried manner, a faint smirk flickering briefly across your lips.

“Fine,” you finally said, evenly. “You want a duel? You’ll get your duel.”

Your gaze sharpened, coldly assessing. “But don’t complain if you end up flat on your back again.”

Ajax’s grin widened, adrenaline surging through him like a storm about to break. He cracked his knuckles, stance shifting into something eager and fierce.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Five minutes later, Ajax was—predictably—flat on his back. Again.

He stared up at the bleak, unfeeling sky of Snezhnaya, snow biting into his back, lungs burning with every harsh breath. At this point, lying dazed and humiliated on the cold ground for the second time in as many days, Ajax found himself reconsidering every choice he'd made in his short but reckless existence. Seriously, what the hell? He’d clawed his way out of the Abyss half-feral, each of Skirk’s ruthless lessons etched into his bones and bloodied knuckles. He’d dismantled men twice his size, left monsters bleeding and broken, had grown used to fear being something other people felt. And yet here he was, sprawled gracelessly, beaten soundly by some smug, snot-nosed recruit his own age. The irony stung worse than the frigid snow pressed uncomfortably beneath him. You loomed over him, expression bored, dusting the faintest traces of snow from your gloves as though this had been little more than an inconvenient chore.

“Can I go now?” you asked flatly, entirely unimpressed. “You lost. Duel’s over.”

Ajax sat up slowly, narrowing his eyes at you, disbelief and wounded pride crashing together painfully in his chest. "How the hell did you win? Did you cheat? You didn't even use your Vision." The accusation came out sharper than intended, frustration bleeding clearly through. You looked down at him, calm and detached, your expression unreadable.

"I didn't need to," you replied smoothly, voice cool as freshly fallen snow. Then, almost as an afterthought, you added, "With your techniques, you might hold your own against Abyssal monsters, at best."

Ajax's jaw tightened visibly, teeth grinding together in irritation.

"But humans?" You tilted your head slightly, tone edged with something dangerously close to boredom. "Humans are smarter. Trickier. Your movements are predictable. Sloppy."

You let the words settle heavily between you like frost on stone, meeting his incredulous stare without so much as blinking.

"It doesn't look like you've fought many actual people."

And then, infuriatingly, you turned away—like he wasn't even worth another second of your attention. Ajax stared after you, stunned, the cold wind biting at his skin. Yet the bitter sting on his face wasn't from the icy gusts, but from your casual dismissal. Before he could think better of it—

"Wait! Teach me!"

The words burst from Ajax's lips, ringing sharply through the training yard. His heart slammed against his ribs as he scrambled gracelessly to his feet, snow tumbling from his shoulders. Wide eyes fixed on you—not filled with fury, but something rawer, more genuine. Eagerness. Curiosity. Intrigue. The fierce fire of a challenge he couldn't yet conquer. He looked at you with a mixture of awe and desperation, gaze practically sparkling like an overeager puppy, the intensity in his voice almost embarrassingly earnest. You paused mid-step, glancing slowly back over your shoulder, one eyebrow raised skeptically. For a long, excruciating moment, you simply stared at him. Then your expression twisted, visibly scrunching your nose as though he'd suggested something utterly revolting—like licking the bottom of his boot or eating dirt straight from the ground.

"Ew. No."

Flat. Immediate. Brutal.

Ajax froze in place, arms slightly outstretched as if waiting for you to toss him a sword, or maybe just a scrap of mercy. Anything. Instead, you left him hanging, mouth half-open, eyes wide in shock, heart still hammering wildly in his chest. You turned around without another glance, walking away like absolutely nothing had happened. He blinked once. Twice.

Did… did you just ew at him?

Ajax sank back down into the snow, utterly bewildered. He stared blankly at the empty spot you'd just occupied, processing this newest humiliation. What the hell was wrong with you? His pride curled defensively inward, and he decided in that very moment, with absolute, burning certainty— He did not like you. Not one bit. …Although, how exactly had you done that clever little maneuver with your foot earlier? And could he convince you to teach it if he asked nicely next time? …Wait. No. Absolutely not. Ajax groaned quietly, burying his face in his hands. This camp was going to be the death of him, he was certain of it.

That night, Ajax tried to sleep. Tried, being the operative word, because the dorm halls were anything but quiet. Shuffling footsteps echoed down corridors, hushed whispers bounced between walls, punctuated occasionally by a sharp barked command. Ajax scowled into the darkness. Something felt off, a restless current crackling through the air—but frankly, he didn't care enough to poke around in camp gossip.

Until the next morning. Rumors spread like wildfire, sizzling with urgency and whispered intensity. Something had happened involving your roommate. As usual, nobody had a straight answer—just vague, increasingly dramatic speculation. One recruit swore you'd killed the girl over something ridiculously petty, like borrowing boots without asking. Another was absolutely certain she'd been caught stealing classified Fatui intel and got tossed out overnight for insubordination. The wildest rumors claimed she'd simply vanished, disappeared completely, the higher-ups covering their tracks with cold efficiency.

Ajax was starting to notice a troubling pattern: wherever your name appeared, chaos was close behind, swirling around you like a blizzard. Rumors clung to you like stubborn frost—confusing, contradictory, impossible to pin down. Not that Ajax cared, of course. Absolutely not. He reminded himself firmly that you were still a smug asshole, a stick-up-your-ass, arrogant rule follower who'd had the absolute gall to say ew to his face as if he were something you'd scrape off your shoe. He was definitely, absolutely, never letting that go.

Breakfast passed without incident, blessedly quiet. Ajax kept to himself, savoring the solitude and the peace of having no roommate yet. Nobody hovering around him, nobody glaring judgmentally because he was “difficult.” Until— A sharp, commanding knock rattled his door. Ajax scowled, already braced for some pointless order or reprimand. When he swung the door open, irritation burning on his tongue, he blinked in genuine surprise at the sight before him. The captain stood rigidly, expression grim and official. And standing just beside him, looking equally displeased, was— You. Ajax's jaw slackened, disbelief flickering plainly across his face.

The captain wasted no time, voice clipped and businesslike. “Y/N will be your roommate from now on.”

Silence stretched heavily, thick enough to choke on. Ajax slowly turned to stare at you, catching your gaze—flat, deadpan, and unmistakably mirroring his own horrified expression. And then, perfectly synchronized, the words spilled out simultaneously:

“Does it have to be them?”

Godhood—an illusion, a meaningless ambition that he had once chased with relentless fervor. For centuries, he had believed in its promise, in the idea that divinity would grant him purpose, significance. And yet, in the end, it had amounted to nothing. No throne, no reverence, no grand design had awaited him at the finish line. Just the same cruel, indifferent world that had never once bent to his will.

Even erasing himself from Irminsul had done little to change the course of fate. He had thought—perhaps naively—that by vanishing, he could grant a better future to those whose misfortunes had been intertwined with his existence. That by severing himself from history, he could unmake the past, untangle the suffering that had taken root because of him. But the world did not grieve his absence. It did not stumble. It merely shifted, adjusted, rewrote itself to accommodate the void he left behind. And still, the same tragedies unfolded. The same people suffered—not by his hand this time, but by coincidence, by fate's own cruel design.

So what had he accomplished?

When the Dendro Archon returned his memories, when the Traveler stood before him under the shade of that sunsettia tree and told him that his life was not meaningless—that he had been a villain, yes, but a villain desperate for meaning—he hadn't known whether to laugh or to cry. What a pathetic joke. He had struggled, fought, abandoned, and betrayed, all in pursuit of something that had never existed in the first place. And even when he had given up, even when he had tried to rewrite his own story by erasing himself, the world had simply continued on as if he had never mattered.

Wanderer exhaled sharply, an almost bitter chuckle escaping his lips. Nothing had really changed. Or so he thought.

"Unfortunately, your place was taken by another lost soul."

Nahida’s words made him pause, his brow arching in faint curiosity. Another lost soul? Who could possibly take his place? Had another puppet been woven into the fabric of this timeline, doomed to walk the same miserable path he had barely escaped?

"Who took my place?" The question left his lips before he had fully processed it, driven less by concern and more by a detached, lingering curiosity—who else could be unfortunate enough to inherit the burden of his existence?

Nahida’s gaze was gentle, yet her words carried the weight of inevitability. "She goes by the Harbinger title 'Trouvère.' Though her true name is Y/N. Does the name ring a bell?"

For a moment, the world stood still. Then, the ground beneath him may as well have shattered. Y/N. A name he had buried, a presence he had long since abandoned to the past for the sake of moving forward—no, for the sake of severing all that made him weak. And yet, here it was again, spoken aloud with the finality of a cruel joke. Fate was merciless. He had sacrificed everything, erased himself from history to grant others a future untouched by his shadow. And in doing so, he had unknowingly condemned the only woman he had ever loved. Condemned her to his existence.

The weight of it settled like iron in his chest. She had inherited his suffering, his mistakes, his path paved with ruin. And he had been blind to it, believing that nothing had changed. But everything had changed. In the worst ways possible. The God of Wisdom had an irritating habit of reading minds.

"Come on," Nahida urged, a knowing glint in her eyes. "She’s staying in one of the chambers of the Sanctuary of Surasthana. You could meet her—perhaps talk to her—since she hasn't exactly been cooperative." She offered a sheepish smile, as if her words weren’t about to upend what little composure he had left.

The Wanderer exhaled, still attempting to process the revelation that, in another timeline, his villainy had persisted without him. And now, this—an echo of the past given form in the present. How difficult could this be? So he followed her.

To see her again. The woman who, despite everything, would have followed him to her death. No matter how many times he pushed her away, no matter how many times he abandoned her, she had remained. Devoted. Unwavering. What would she be like now? He had once heard a saying—kitsunes love only once. And in that other life, she had given that love to him. Had dedicated herself to him entirely, with a faith so unshakable it bordered on foolishness.

But without him, without the man she had once chased through storm and fire… Who had she become? The Sanctuary of Surasthana was as serene as ever, its halls steeped in quiet reverence. The air carried a sense of stillness, undisturbed, as if the world beyond its walls did not exist. Yet, for all its tranquility, peace was the last thing in the Wanderer’s heart. Was he even ready to face you? You, who had given up so much. You, whom he had already shattered once—perhaps beyond repair—only to somehow find a way to wound you again, even in a world where he no longer existed.

Did he even have the right?

The question settled heavily in his mind, an echo of doubt and guilt. Yet, despite everything, his feet carried him forward. Whether it was curiosity, obligation, or something deeper, he did not know. All he knew was that soon, he would see you again. And he was terrified of what he might find. The Wanderer had crossed many thresholds in his lifetime—or perhaps, in another lifetime entirely. Doors that led to places he was never meant to enter, boundaries he had shattered, choices that had shaped him into the person he was now. And yet, standing before this one, he hesitated.

Crossing the threshold of your chambers felt different. It was suffocating. A part of him wanted to turn back, to disappear before you could ever realize he was there. But he owed the Dendro Archon—owed her enough to see this through, even if every fiber of his being screamed at him to leave. So he stepped forward. Not for himself, not for you, but to ease a debt. And there you were. Sitting at a desk, your back to him, unaware—or perhaps unwilling to acknowledge—his presence. For all his apprehension, for all the ways he had braced himself, he still wasn’t prepared for this.

"I have no intention of cooperating, Buer. It doesn’t matter which one of your little followers you’ve dragged along this time."

Your voice cut through the chamber like a blade, sharp with exhaustion, laced with irritation. You weren’t speaking to him. You hadn’t even spared him a glance. No, your words were directed at none other than the Dendro Archon herself. Nahida, ever patient, merely sighed. "You may want to speak with him, Y/N," she said, unshaken by your hostility. "He has a rather interesting story—one that heavily relates to you."

And at that, you finally turned. Your gaze met his. For a fleeting moment, there was nothing. No flicker of recognition, no sign that his presence meant anything at all to you. Your eyes were empty, hollow—disinterested, as though he were no more than a stranger in passing. Then, in the space of a single breath, something shifted. Your expression flickered—widened—not in recognition, but in something far more visceral.

Your gaze dropped, fixating on his hand. On something unseen to anyone else in the room. And then the air snapped taut with killing intent. The shift was instantaneous. Before he could react, before he could so much as breathe, you moved. A blur of motion—then impact. The world tilted. His back hit the ground, breath ripped from his lungs as fingers clamped around his throat, pressing just enough to burn. Sharp nails dug into his skin, and your grip was ironclad, unyielding.

Fox ears flattened against your head, your pupils blown wide, wild with something between rage and fear. The unmistakable aggression of a kitsune yokai.

When you woke up, you were in a cage.

"Where am I?" you wished to ask, but no words came. Your voice betrayed you, just like the cold, unfeeling bars that surrounded you.

And then, you woke up again—the glaring lights of the laboratory bearing down on you, indifferent to your unease. It was just a dream. A memory, perhaps. Inconsequential. Unimportant.

You sighed and pushed yourself upright, the faint hum of machinery in the background serving as your constant companion. The same as always. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you rose to begin yet another day.

The routine was second nature by now: brush your teeth at the lab’s sink, the chill of the sterile water waking you up more effectively than the broken remnants of sleep. You made coffee—not for yourself, but for him. Always for him.

With the mug in hand, you walked down the labyrinthine corridors until you found him, exactly where you knew he’d be.

"Good morning, sir. Here’s your coffee," you said, a polite smile on your lips.

Dottore didn’t look up immediately, engrossed in his work, but the faintest flicker of acknowledgment crossed his face before he turned to you. "Ah, Y/N," he said smoothly, his voice carrying its usual mix of authority and curiosity. "Come. There’s an experiment I would like to discuss with you."

One might ask: who were you? Why were you living in the Harbinger's lab? What purpose did you serve there?

Perhaps they would, if you were allowed to speak to anyone other than Dottore and his segments. These were questions that lingered like shadows in your mind, unanswered and unwelcome. You didn’t know who you were. All you remembered was a cage, an auction, the experiments, and Dottore.

As for your identity, the answer was never simple. You were his assistant. You were Y/N when Dottore was in a good mood, and Test Subject Z-58517 when he wasn’t. You preferred the former, of course.

But in truth, none of it mattered. These questions, these labels—they were as meaningless as the countless test subjects who entered this lab and left as lifeless husks. Everything was meaningless.

Everything, except Dottore. And, as he often claimed, you.

You were one of only two successes in a century-long experiment. The only subject to show "promising results." What those results entailed, you didn’t dare ask. It wasn’t your place to question things, after all. That was the first lesson you learned here.

Still, it wasn’t all bad. Or so you told yourself. You were lucky, weren’t you? He spoke to you, called you by the name he gave you. He taught you things—human anatomy, the art of observation. He even allowed you to stand beside him during his experiments, a privilege no one else shared.

It was a monotone existence, yes, but far better than the fate of those who came before you. Better than being the one strapped to the operating table. It wasn’t that bad, you reminded yourself. It couldn’t be.

You were grateful, truly. After the initial experimentation, you were rarely placed on the lab table. And even when he did conduct the occasional procedure on you, he assured you it was never anything life-threatening. Sometimes it was painful, other times it wasn’t. Compared to the agony his other test subjects endured, it was almost... merciful.

You knew better than to question it. The last time you asked, his response was chillingly clear: questions about this matter would have consequences. While he encouraged your curiosity in almost everything else, there were certain topics that were strictly off-limits.

His favoritism, for one, was not to be questioned. The door at the far end of the lab was never to be opened. You were not to ask why you weren’t allowed to leave the lab, nor were you to inquire about the experiments he performed on you. He had already told you all you needed to know: that his work had made you immortal.

Why he chose you, out of all people, to be his assistant—that was another forbidden question.

But the most unthinkable of all was asking about your predecessor. The first success in this long chain of experiments. Test Subject A.

Even without asking, you knew fragments of the story. Enough to piece together that Test Subject A had been the first and only other "promising" result before you. He spoke of them often, though never in detail, always comparing you to them, as if measuring you against a standard you couldn’t hope to meet.

You never asked what had happened to them. 

"The calculations you performed were correct, and theoretically, your method could work," Dottore said, his tone steady, analytical. "But, my dear, in practice, the chances of this potion causing the subject's lungs to fail are quite high."

He always found the flaws. Always. No matter how meticulous you were, he would unravel your work with effortless precision. You knew these weren’t true lessons; they were tests. He already had the answers. He was comparing you to her again—your predecessor, the ghost that haunted every experiment.

"Would you like to see what happens when we put your theory to the test, my dear?" he asked, his lips curling into that familiar smile. The one that never reached his eyes. The one that sent a chill down your spine, not because of malice, but because of what it demanded. There was always a right answer with him. Anything else was failure. Anything else was disappointment.

"Yes, sir," you replied, matching his smile as best you could.

The words came easily now. The hesitation you once felt when faced with human experimentation had faded long ago. These days, you even found it... interesting. The twisted elegance of the human body laid bare, the mechanics of life and death under your hands—it fascinated you in ways you never thought possible.

You no longer dreamed of escape. Why would you? This was your world now, and there was nothing for you beyond these walls. You didn’t remember anything beyond the lab, not really. And without a reason to leave, why question your place here?

Yes, you told yourself. This was fine. You were fine.

The scalpel felt natural in your hand, too natural. The writhing of the test subject beneath you stirred nothing within—no pity, no pain. Only focus. You worked with precision, each cut deliberate, each motion practiced.

He had been right. The lung did fail, just as he predicted. The potion you created had done its job, though not in the way you’d hoped.

You glanced at him, searching his face for a flicker of pride. That rare hint of affection he reserved for moments when you exceeded his expectations.

"You did well, my dear," Dottore said, his voice as clinical as ever. Yet, there was a softness to his tone, almost imperceptible. "Your methods of dissection have improved. No mistakes this time."

His gloved hand came to rest lightly on your head, a brief pat—a fleeting reward.

"Thank you, sir," you replied, smiling up at him, your chest tightening with something uncomfortably close to satisfaction.

You enjoyed this. The recognition. The approval. The moments when, if only for an instant, you weren’t living in her shadow. When he wasn’t comparing you to her.

These moments were rare, but when they came, they were intoxicating.

"You completed this experiment with nearly the same time and efficiency as Test Subject A. This calls for a reward, my dear. What would you like?" Dottore asked, his smile softer this time—almost genuine.

The question caught you off guard. "I... I don’t know, sir," you admitted, unsure of what he expected.

His expression shifted instantly, the corners of his mouth lowering, his eyes narrowing. "Test Subject A would have known what she wanted," he said, his tone flat and clipped. The weight of his disappointment hung in the air, suffocating.

Your chest tightened, and you scrambled to salvage the moment. "I haven’t finished yet, sir," you muttered, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. You couldn’t let her take this from you—not again. Test Subject A already haunted your every waking moment, her legacy looming like a shadow you could never escape.

Dottore raised an eyebrow, waiting.

You took a breath, crafting an answer on the spot. "A new notebook would suffice," you began, keeping your voice steady. "Perhaps... alongside some flora and fauna I’ve never seen before."

His frown eased, replaced by a spark of intrigue. "Hmm. That is a unique request," he mused, tapping his gloved fingers against his chin. "Test Subject A would have asked for something more practical... but this is understandable. She had access to the world beyond the lab, after all. Collecting such things was easier for her."

For a moment, his gaze softened—only slightly. "For you, however, this will be a challenge."

He smiled again, this time with a hint of approval, and pulled out his notebook to jot something down. "Very well. I will acquire what you want."

You watched as he wrote, noting how he immediately documented the difference between you and her. Even in your victories, she lingered. She always did.

You woke up. Another day, another experiment, another endless string of comparisons. This was your life.

“Ah, gather 'round, my friends! Let me tell you a tale of ancient Liyue—a time when our land quaked beneath the shadows of gods and monsters alike,” Iron Tongue Tian began, his voice rich with gravitas as he gestured to the rapt audience.

“In those distant days, Liyue was beset by calamity, its skies darkened by the fury of two titans. The first, a serpentine terror known as Ipos, the God of Massacres, was no mere beast but a storm incarnate. With a sweep of her wrath, forests would wither, the air itself turning to venom. Thousands fell to her unrelenting might, their cries swallowed by the chaos she wrought. If Osial was a threat, Ipos was a tempest that consumed the very heart of Liyue, her power so great that even the most revered of gods dared not tread near her stronghold in Chenyu Vale.

"Imagine, if you will, a world where she had triumphed. They say Liyue would have been reduced to a wasteland, naught but ash and ruin. And atop a mountain of corpses, it would be her serpentine form that claimed the divine throne. Such a thought, chilling as it is, was not far from reality."

He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial hush, drawing the listeners closer. "But against this living calamity stood a mountain dragon, steadfast and unyielding. Yes, our very own Rex Lapis, the Geo Archon himself! Rallying his adepti, he waged war against the serpent, his every strike a testament to his resolve to protect this land. The battles between them—ah, they shook the heavens and carved the earth! It was said that the very mountains trembled under their fury.”

Tian paused, letting the weight of his words sink in before continuing. “Yet even Rex Lapis, mighty as he was, could not strike her down. No, for Ipos was as cunning as she was cruel. As the war raged on, she was cornered at last, driven to the depths of the Chasm. It is there, they say, that the blood-red trees we see today were born, their roots steeped in the blood she shed in her desperation.

“And what became of her? Ah, therein lies the mystery, my friends. Some say she was defeated, others that she fled to heal her wounds in the endless dark of the Chasm, waiting for the day she might rise again. But one thing is certain: her reign of terror ended not by her choice, but by the will of the Geo Archon, the stalwart shield of Liyue.”

With a dramatic sweep of his arms, Iron Tongue Tian concluded, his voice brimming with pride. “So tonight, as you walk the streets of this blessed harbor, give thanks to Rex Lapis, the mountain dragon who tamed the storm. And should you ever wander near the Chasm, beware the whispers of the serpent—lest her slumber be disturbed.”

The crowd shivered, murmuring among themselves, as Tian’s story settled over them like the mist rolling off the peaks of Jueyun Karst.

The murmuring crowd stilled as the figure's voice sliced through the air, sharp and dripping with disdain. "What utter garbage," you muttered, swirling the golden liquid in your cup before taking a measured sip of osmanthus wine.

Nearby, a group of children turned their curious gazes toward you. One, bolder than the rest, asked, "Garbage? What do you mean, Auntie Y/N?"

You tilted your head slightly, feigning surprise, though the smirk tugging at your lips betrayed your amusement. "Hmm? Oh, listen well, children. Adults who spin stories for a living are skilled liars. Lies, after all, make for better tales." You leaned closer, your voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "Be like Auntie. Build an empire of wine instead—far more profitable and far less dramatic."

The children giggled, though their laughter was quickly interrupted by a familiar exasperated sigh. "Auntie Y/N, you’re driving away my customers again," Iron Tongue Tian groaned, rubbing his temples as he stepped forward. His frustration was palpable, and for good reason—you had become the bane of his storytelling ventures as of late.

You turned to him with a casual shrug, clearly unfazed. "Then tell better stories, Tian. If you had a shred of accuracy in your words, perhaps I’d even recommend you to people." You smirked, taking another sip of your wine, your tone sharp yet somehow playful.

Tian’s eyes narrowed. Everyone knew you were no ordinary critic. Your words carried weight, laced with an unnerving certainty that suggested firsthand knowledge. It didn’t help that your husband, the ever-enigmatic funeral consultant, seemed to share the same uncanny knack for historical accuracy. Together, you made for an odd couple, one steeped in mystery, and most had long since learned not to pry too deeply.

"You know, Auntie Y/N," Tian retorted, his voice tight with barely restrained annoyance, "it’s easy to mock from the sidelines. But if you’re so certain my tales are lacking, why don’t you tell one yourself?"

You laughed, low and melodic, and fixed him with a challenging look. "Oh, Tian, you wouldn’t want that. The truth is rarely as entertaining as your flights of fancy." You waved a dismissive hand, already turning back to the children, who were now looking at you with wide-eyed fascination.

"Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Life lessons. Drink wine, build an empire, and never believe everything you hear," you said, raising your cup in a mock toast.

Tian groaned audibly, while the crowd—half intrigued and half bewildered—couldn’t decide whether to laugh or quietly slink away. Such was the chaos you seemed to bring wherever you went, though you, as always, seemed to revel in it.

You were, by now, everyone's "Auntie," though your youthful visage spoke of a life untouched by time. The people of Liyue chalked it up to good fortune—or perhaps just good genes. None dared to pry further.

"Very well," you relented, setting your cup down with deliberate ease. A slow grin spread across your face, sharp and knowing, as if you held the keys to secrets long buried. "You’ve convinced me. Let me tell you the true story of the God of Massacres. One that will make even the strongest piss themselves."

Solitude had long been his chosen companion, the only luxury Scaramouche truly valued in his fragmented existence. Yet, as a Harbinger, he had long since forfeited such indulgences. Power demanded sacrifices, and among them was enduring the tedium of these infernal meetings. So there he sat, silent and brooding, waiting for Pierro to finally arrive and put an end to this charade. Four centuries had passed since he took up his title, and still, the endless deliberations grated on him like sand caught in delicate gears.

What tiresome mission would Pierro hand down this time? Scaramouche’s thoughts churned, calculating potential excuses to evade it—unless, of course, the task involved the Gnosis of Inazuma or something equally intriguing. His gaze flitted briefly to Capitano, who was—predictably—reveling in recounting his latest conquests. Scaramouche had lost track of how many times he’d had to repair his mechanical ears this year alone thanks to Capitano’s incessant boasting. And then there was Dottore. Or more precisely, Dottore’s assistant.

Why were you here?

It was supposed to be a meeting for Harbingers, not their lackeys. And yet, there you stood, an anomaly in a room meant for monsters wearing masks of power. Scaramouche’s sharp eyes lingered, sizing you up.

You were a presence he had noticed before, though only in passing. For nearly a century now, you’d been tethered to Dottore like a shadow. He vaguely recalled your first appearance—just another mortal plucked from obscurity, or so he’d assumed. But time had proven otherwise. You didn’t age. Not in the slightest. Over the years, he’d seen you in Dottore’s lab more times than he cared to remember, assisting with experiments that twisted the boundaries of creation itself. Each encounter only served to deepen his disdain. To Scaramouche, you were a lifeless puppet, more hollow than he ever was, and that was no small feat.

He harbored no pity for you, of course. You had chosen to align yourself with that wretched Doctor, and that was reason enough to despise you. Yet your presence here, in a place meant for the elite of the Fatui, was perplexing. What purpose could you possibly serve outside Dottore’s lab? And more importantly—what game was the Doctor playing now?

He leaned back in his chair, the indifference in his gaze masking the flicker of curiosity beneath. Scaramouche was, if nothing else, a patient man. Years of navigating the treacherous waters of the Fatui had taught him that some truths were best unveiled through silence. If this was another of Dottore’s elaborate schemes, and it likely was. Acting prematurely would only play into the Doctor’s hands. No, better to wait, to observe. The truth always revealed itself to those who endured.

When Pierro finally arrived, late as always, it was with the same air of somber authority that made his tardiness feel more deliberate than accidental. The director of the harbingers wasted no time in beginning.

"The agenda for this meeting," Pierro began, his gravelly voice echoing across the room, "is to introduce our newest recruit to the Harbingers. This is Y/N."

Scaramouche’s sharp eyes darted toward you, his suspicion sharpening with Pierro’s words. He had expected many things—schemes, experiments, manipulations—but this?

Pierro continued, unbothered by the rising tension in the room. "She has served the Fatui faithfully for many years as both an operator and as an assistant to Dottore. Through her loyalty and cunning, she has proven her worth to Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa. As of today, she has been appointed as the Twelfth of the Fatui Harbingers. Her title will be Scapina, the Machiavellian. Let us all welcome her to our ranks."

The room fell into a brittle silence, one crackling with thinly veiled hostility. Scaramouche didn’t need to look around to sense the disdain radiating from the others. It was palpable, a storm gathering beneath the surface. Only a fool would openly welcome this new addition. After all, the Harbingers were a collection of schemers and opportunists, each jealously guarding their position within the ranks. The idea of an outsider—especially one who had served as a shadow to Dottore, no less—was fuel enough to ignite animosity.

Your connection to Dottore made your appointment to the Harbingers an immediate threat in Scaramouche’s eyes. It was a move that would only solidify the Doctor’s influence within their ranks. He already had a firm alliance with Pantalone, and now, with you, a new piece on the board, his power grew. Scaramouche wasn’t the only one to notice. The unease in the room was palpable, an unspoken consensus rippling through the assembled Harbingers. Suspicion was their currency, and you had entered the game with a balance already stacked against you.

Scaramouche’s thoughts churned as his gaze flickered toward you. The Harbingers were ranked by strength, and Tartaglia, a mortal, held a position above you. For all his disdain for the youngest Harbinger, even Scaramouche had to admit the boy had earned his place through sheer skill and brutality. You, however, appeared far weaker. What could possibly justify your appointment? The Tsaritsa’s favor alone? It was an insult to the group—a blemish on their elite force. He was prepared to voice his protest, but La Signora, as always, was quicker to seize the floor.

With her signature elegance laced with venom, she stepped forward, her crimson gown billowing like flames in the icy air. Her gaze settled on you, sharp and cutting, before turning to Pierro with an arched brow.

"Are we to assume," she began, her voice dripping with condescension, "that this… new recruit is a mortal, like Tartaglia?" Her lips curled into a smirk as she gestured toward the Eleventh Harbinger, who remained silent, his expression unreadable. "Given that our ranks are determined by strength, surely there is no place for someone weaker than him among us. Are you quite certain that this decision serves the Tsaritsa’s will?"

Her words hung in the air, heavy and biting, as her sharp eyes flicked back to you, appraising and dismissive all at once. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for Pierro’s response. Scaramouche leaned back slightly, watching the scene unfold with quiet amusement. For once, he felt no need to interject. La Signora’s disdain had articulated his own thoughts well enough, though he suspected she spoke less out of principle and more for the sport of humiliating you.

"Y/N is not a mortal," Pierro said, his voice firm and deliberate, silencing the murmurs that threatened to ripple through the room. "She has demonstrated significant strength and proved her worth on missions that caught the eye of Her Majesty herself. Yes, the Harbinger rankings are determined by strength, but I must remind you all—physical prowess alone does not dictate power. Y/N commands an intelligence network that extends beyond the reach of the House of the Hearth, a network that has delivered information to the upper ranks and the Tsaritsa that could very well redefine our understanding of this world."

He paused, his icy gaze sweeping the room, daring anyone to object. "From the depths of the Abyss, she has unearthed truths that challenge our assumptions about Celestia and the power they wield over us. Her Majesty values results, and Y/N has delivered them. I trust you will all have faith in Her Majesty’s judgment."

The weight of Pierro’s words settled over the room like a frost-laden gale. It was rare for him to acknowledge the worth of any Harbinger, and rarer still for him to defend one with such conviction. Suspicion bloomed among the gathered Harbingers, their guarded expressions betraying their unease. If Pierro, a figure revered for his unyielding standards, stood so firmly behind you, then there was more to you than they had anticipated.

Scaramouche, for his part, found himself more cautious than ever. The enigma surrounding you only deepened. Your background was a void, obscured even from the prying eyes of the Fatui’s inner circle. No one, save Dottore, seemed to know where you had come from or what your ultimate agenda might be. Your strengths, your weaknesses, everything about you was an unknown.

And yet, somehow, without uttering a single word, you had commanded the meeting’s attention. Pierro had spoken on your behalf, a feat few could dream of accomplishing. Even the most seasoned Harbingers tread carefully around him, yet you had managed to turn him into your mouthpiece. It was a power that unnerved Scaramouche, a subtle manipulation that spoke to a deeper, more insidious intelligence.

His gaze flicked around the room. The others mirrored his wariness, their eyes sharp with calculation. All except three: Dottore, Pierro, and Columbina. Dottore, of course, was your obvious ally. Pierro was the one who had legitimized your place among them, a shield you could wield for now. And Columbina… well, no one ever truly knew what thoughts lurked behind that serene smile.

For Scaramouche, the conclusion was clear: you were dangerous. And danger, in the Fatui, was rarely an accident.

The meeting dragged on far longer than Scaramouche would have liked. He sat with a bored expression etched onto his face, his chin resting lazily on one hand as he occasionally cast sidelong glances at you. You had been an afterthought to him before—a shadowy figure trailing after that insufferable Dottore, a face lost in the sea of recruits and subordinates. But now? Now, you had a seat at the same table as him, an equal among the Harbingers. That fact alone forced him to pay attention.

You were difficult to read. Your blank expression betrayed nothing, and those bored, E/C eyes of yours gave no hint of what thoughts might be lurking behind them. A hallmark of a Harbinger, true, but there was something else, a subtle malice that clung to you like a faint, nearly undetectable scent. Unnerving. Scaramouche prided himself on his instincts, on his ability to sense potential threats, yet you had somehow escaped his notice entirely until now. That was what unsettled him most.

As the meeting finally concluded, Scaramouche stood, dusting off his pants and retrieving his hat from the ground where he had placed it earlier—a concession to Pulcinella and Sandrone, whose complaints about the brim poking them had become unbearable. Adjusting the hat atop his head, he cast a disinterested glance around the room, watching the other Harbingers depart one by one. It was in that moment, as the room began to empty, that he heard a voice.

“It’s rude to stare, you know.”

The words carried a smugness that immediately grated on his nerves. His head turned sharply, eyes narrowing as he looked over his shoulder to find you standing there, an almost playful expression on your face.

"Scapina, was it?" he asked, his voice laced with disdain.

"Yes," you replied smoothly, your tone light but your gaze unwavering. "I’m already well aware of who you are, of course, so there’s no need for introductions."

The smile you wore might have fooled anyone else, its warmth seemingly genuine. But Scaramouche wasn’t just anyone. He had spent centuries perfecting the art of deceit himself and could see it for what it was—a mask, nothing more. He scoffed, his lips curling into a mocking smirk.

"Indeed. So, you’re Dottore’s lapdog," he drawled, his tone biting. "What made you think I’d want to entertain a conversation with the likes of you? Surely, you’re not foolish enough to think I’d be on friendly terms with anyone who associates with him."

Your smile didn’t falter. If anything, it seemed to widen, though the glint in your eyes remained sharp and calculating. "As far as I’m aware," you said, with a chuckle that felt too casual for the weight of your words, "you’re not on good terms with anyone—Harbinger or otherwise."

Your remark landed like a blade’s edge, but you continued before Scaramouche could retort. "In any case, I look forward to our future collaborations. I’ve always found you rather… interesting."

With that, you turned on your heel and left, your steps echoing softly against the cold marble floor. Scaramouche stood rooted in place, his scowl deepening as he watched you leave.

"Interesting?" he thought, his irritation bubbling beneath the surface. If there was one thing he despised, it was being toyed with. And yet, there you were, smiling and chuckling as though you had already won some unspoken game. It only made him all the more wary of you.