because of his age, he needed more sleep, causing you to be the one who usually woke up first. he'd always seem so peaceful and at ease, you couldn't help but want to sit on that wrinkly face of the his. what better way to wake him up than that? zandik never complained, although you did have to make sure he didn't have an asthma attack mid oral.

zandik knew you always got hot and bothered when he talks down to you, in that condescending tone of his. you really were pathetic, drooling over an old man's cock this much. he'd wipe the spit off your chin, then stick his long, worn out fingers in your mouth when you get too loud, the feel of your throat closing around them as you gagged always made him laugh.

Even in slumber, the composure of his countenance was elegant. You’d turn carefully towards him, brushing a stray strand of silver hair. What are you even supposed to do with him? Live happily ever after like that every day?

“Hm, ...Morning already?” – He stirred upon the faintest touch of your fingers, eyebrows furrowing. “Apologies, how reckless of me. I was meant to rise early to surprise you with breakfast in bed.”

Ah, so he has some humor in him, even at an early hour like this. 

“No, no. It’s too early. Sorry if I woke you up. Besides, who says you owe me breakfast in bed from now on?” – You watched him sit up beside you, the pale morning light lay bare on Khaenri’ahn scars on his other eye. Maskless for you to witness in the privacy of shared bedchambers.

“Hm? Overly formal of me, perhaps? Very well. I ought to have embraced my role more convincingly. Now that it is morning, I should’ve kept you in my arms and congratulate us both on consummating our marri-”

“We didn’t consummate a thing.”

He smiled, a thoughtful hum escaping him.

“…You’re correct, we didn’t do that either.” 

You’d scowl whenever he wore that silent expression of mild amusement. As if his smile promised: ‘one day, then’. What does a cold Harbinger like him ponder in his solemn silence? Probably thinking how the sight of your tousled hair, strewn carelessly across his pillows, should’ve been a vision destined for his eyes long ago. But the Harbinger was wiser than that and knew not to press your buttons first thing in the morning. 

Witnessing the Director's routine up and personal was a spectacle. Like clockwork, he was already washed, dressed, and making the bed. Unfortunately, your desire for ‘five more minutes’ was far stronger than his desire for tidiness at an early hour. His solution? Lift you by the waist, even when you clutch onto pillows, set you aside, make the bed, and take you back into his arms if needed. Uncomplicated. 

“Shall I request the servants to make blini with smetana today? Hm, no, perhaps poached eggs with sweet potatoes and salad is better. I might have a meeting in the evening, but I will try to leave early either way. Would you prefer some ring shopping? I know the wedding and engagement rings were already assigned for us, but if you wish for more custom-made jewelry, we can-”

“Pierro.” 

You approached him suddenly, still in your sleepwear, a pillow tucked beneath one arm. With a disgruntled expression of drowsiness, you came to fix his collar with gentle precision before giving him a pat on the shoulders.

“Shh… Just go to work. Be on your merry way.” 

He blinked at you, a dark gaze bestowed on him.

“And you won’t send me off with a kiss first?” 

With shoulders sagging and a pout, you relented. The Jester knew his role well, and even when he inclined his side of the face for a tender peck, he’d return it with another of his own. An unhurried, deliberate kiss. His gloved hands cradled the side of your jawline as he whispered.

“You're far too endearing a sight. Though I am truly lucky to be the only one to see it in the mornings.”

✧ Capitano was the ever-accommodating gentleman, regardless of whether this marriage was born of pretense or genuine desire. The two of you might’ve been fulfilling some bizarre duty set by the Tsaritsa, yet he never presumed upon your comfort, especially now that the two of you share a grand manor as your household.

Anything you desire, he’d accommodate. A separate master bathroom? All for you. An upper floor reserved for your leisurely pursuits or a study room? Already granted. And most notably, The Captain personally inquired if you wished for separate bedchambers.

You replied with gentle candor, confessing no discomfort in sharing a bed. Are the two of you not spouses now? Yet surprisingly, the hesitant silence that followed the Harbinger told you he might be timid in such regards. Did you perhaps cross the line? You tried to take your words back with an apology, but instead, Capitano quickly cleared his throat:

“No, no. The issue is not as you suppose. The truth is, I cannot accompany you with blissful sleep. My… constitution does not allow me to, at least.”

Oh, you realized. You nearly forgot. Capitano’s curse of immortality was of a different nature than most, not a merciful state. There you sat upon your knees atop the mattress, already dressed in your sleepwear before him. The two of you shared a wistful silence before you glanced at him:

“Please, come here.”

The Harbinger couldn’t disobey. Clad in a tightly fitting shirt and simple lounge wear, he sat at the edge of the bed.

“Even if you can’t sleep or dream like everyone else,” – you looked at him with determination. “Then at least let me stay up with you for a while. We can just talk, anything that may trouble your weary mind.”

“Please, my cherished. I can’t allow myself to keep you awake all night. You need your rest.”

But you shook your head and urged him. It took a while to persuade him that you are open to just his presence in the dimness of the night. That even if he spoke about everything or nothing, you’d rather fall asleep by his side than pretend he is a monster incapable of peace, even in the privacy of his own household. And how could he say no to your unselfishness? Your form, washed and ready for bed, welcoming him with open arms. He easily relented, cradling your form against his own, and he sat in bed beside you.  

“If you grant me the opportunity to talk your ear out until you fall asleep, then how can I deny such an opportunity to my beloved?”

And so the two of you conversed the entire night. You just rested there, your head resting on his chest, listening to him entertain your whims and curiosities: about his travels, his battles, his life in Khaenri’ah. Anything, truly. Even when your yawns tortured you, and eyelids chained you down to shut them, you insisted that he’d continue. His hand was warm. Pitch-black skin marred with scars rested on your back, drawing soothing caresses.

“You know, Capi,” – You whispered thoughtfully, your ear pressed on his chest. “I can actually hear your heart from here. It’s…”

“...Unnatural?”

“Mechanical, almost. But soothing.”

The heavy toll of keeping your eyelids open was a cumbersome battle, and thus, the Harbinger silently watched as you fell asleep in his arms. Your breathing mellowed down, and your hair rested sprawled on him. Even if this Khaenri’ahn man cannot dream in the traditional sense, staying still to gaze upon your slumbering form was a far better dream than he could ever pray for. 

With a deliberate kiss on your forehead, he stayed a while to hold you – “Sleep well, my cherished.”

✧ Pretending Dottore’s personal life was one of intimate domesticity was a lie so foolish, not a living Fatuus would believe such a pretense. A cunning scholar like him would never yearn for a family; such thoughts would be more corrupting than forbidden knowledge.

Yet how come the said scholar was the one preparing a balanced dinner for you and the younger segment? You assumed he’d burn the kitchen, but nothing Dottore’s calculating ambition can’t achieve when he is measuring ingredients like a chemical concoction. How come this same scholar was going through multiple iterations of a baklava recipe because the younger segment didn’t like the pistachios' saltiness? Now he stood, overwriting some notes to fix the measurements with mathematical accuracy. The young Zandik and Dottore share the same tastes after all. And lastly, how come this same scholar said he does not seek a partner or spouse, yet keeps imploring you to accompany him in all his endeavors? 

Why would a heretic yearn for a family? You weren’t the only one asking that, for even the Doctor questioned his ambition towards you. Another mask to don, one with the title of a “loving husband and father”, how is it different from his countless other masks?

Every time Dottore saw you chase after the energetic young segment by the cobbled streets of Sumeru, he’d stand behind watching silently. Perhaps the sun of his homeland was never harsh on his skin. Whenever that small boy tugged at your hand to point at things, you’d crouch down to explain to him like a patient parent. Dottore would cross his arms and join the conversation, your tone so infectious that he couldn’t help but educate the youth, too. Even if he technically wasn’t his “son”, but a clone. 

One late evening, as he took the liberty of extinguishing the corridor lights, his attention was drawn to the thin sliver of light spilling through the child’s door. Passing with silent footsteps, he caught the murmur of your voice inside. You sat by the tucked-in boy in bed and read him a book. Then came the timid voice of the segment calling your name:

“... Is it true that this is only temporary? You and Prime would go your separate ways once the Tsaritsa told you to?”

“Well, sweetie. It might’ve been an order by a certain cryo archon, but since when have either Dottore or I obeyed some gods, hm?”

“Then what will become of me? If he must discard me as an experiment, he can leave then! Can’t you stay… with me?”

Though Dottore could not glimpse your expression from here, he heard your deep sigh, probably ruffling the segment’s curly hair. “Oh, silly. I would never allow Dottore to get rid of you. Heh, he’ll have to fight me first, I promise you that.”

Dottore did not intrude; He just quietly walked away.

The following early morning bore a grand occasion. The young segment was heading to his first day at school. The colorful, tactical school supplies you bought on a spree are finally coming in handy. Now, you stood and tenderly fixed the emerald-green uniform on the boy, while he clutched his backpack with wide, expectant ruby eyes. Your words of encouragement may be the ever-loving one, but Dottore clearly saw how the child’s quiet bravado was an instinctual habit of anxiety. Even this young segment mirrored some of the same fears he inheritance from The Doctor. 

The Harbinger crouched down and sternly gazed at the child. The two Zandiks stared at each other before the oldest one spoke:

“Remember now. What did I teach you about molecular biology?

“...That two classes of macromolecules are the most important part of cells. The nucleic acids and proteins.” 

“And?”

“And… that nucleic acids store and transmit genetic information, while proteins carry out most of the structural and functional tasks in the cell.“

“Excellent,” – Dottore concluded, before that smirk of sharp teeth graced him once more. “Now go decimate them with your wisdom.” 

The boy beamed up in an instant. Sometimes, you forget that the two of them are the same devilish genius. With a mimicking toothy smile, the kid bounced off towards the school’s entrance. You and the Harbinger stood quietly.

“Molecular components of cells? Already?”

With idle ease, his arm snuck around your waist, and he pulled you to his side.

“Hm? Is that not what children ought to know by memory? I remember at his age, I was already reciting the names of the twenty amino acids instead of counting sheep to sleep.”  

✧ When the head shrine maiden of the grand Narukami Shrine first received the news of Scaramouche’s official marriage, she scoffed. The once prototype made by Ei, Kunikuzushi, received blessings not from his archon maker but from the archon of Snezhnaya. Fate sure has its humorous ways, thought Yae Miko. Not that Beelzebul would ever leave her Plane of Euthimya to witness the marriage. 

But her opinion of this regard mattered little. Several months ago, an official diplomatic request was sent from Zapolyarny Palace to conduct the wedding in a modest yet serviceable manner, as expected of Inzauman costumes. After all, the Harbinger in question hails from here, and the Narukami shrine couldn’t deny the Tsaritsa’s negotiation.

That was several months ago. Now the married Harbinger sat before Guuji Yae. Though both of them kept amicable courtesy, their expression mirrored one another - a barely veiled scowl. 

“I must say, Kunikuzushi, congratulations are in order. Not only did you bind someone to your name, but I wouldn’t have thought you’d seek to host your wedding in your home region.”

“It’s Harbinger Scaramouche, Miko. I implore you to remember that since you’re in a diplomatic meeting, not idle chit-chat. Besides, the location and details were ordered by Her Majesty the Tsaritsa.” 

“Oh? So arranged by someone else. My, my. And here I thought you were living the fairytale life. How are they, by the way? Your spouse.” 

The Balladeer’s hands clutch into fists. His cool expression might be schooled to stoicism, but Yae could clearly discern that smoldering note of loathing in his eyes. She used her words cunningly, throwing several baits to see which one catches: the mention of this marriage, or Scaramouche’s beloved. 

To Yae Miko’s surprise, her bait didn’t latch on. Because as Scaramouche was about to reply, one of the shrine maidens arrived with a hasty bow, declaring the arrival of the Harbinger’s spouse. Indeed, you appeared soon after, trailed by attendants and burdened with an array of shopping bags – “Apologies, dear. Are you still in a meeting? Greetings, great Guuji Yae. I hope there was no intrusion on my part.”

Whatever Fatui diplomatic matters were discussed with the Narukami shrine was completely forgotten, and The Harbinger was already by your side. They say husbands are particularly doting on their spouses during the honeymoon phase. But the Balladeer was always like that with you. Rushing to your side, silently taking whatever heavy items out of your grasp, subtly fixing your hairstyle when you walk in. 

Most surprisingly, Yae couldn’t see false acting from either of you. These two were absolutely not pretending…

“Ah, the person of the hour. Kunikuzushi, introduce me to your darling. I see that the Tsaritsa had a good pick for you.” – The shrine maiden followed when she caught how tenderly the Harbinger spoke to you. You looked unassuming at first glance, no discomfort or anxiety in the way you reciprocated Scaramouche’s touch. 

“Miss Yae. A pleasure to formally meet you. I heard a lot about you from my husband.” – You nodded politely, your mannerism as delicate as your formal smile. “Such as your preferences for discarding others like toys.”

Ah, a fine gem indeed, thought Yae. Either the Tsaritsa chose well, or Scaranouche had impeccable taste. Though now she can see how you would’ve caught his eye. 

“We didn't have the pleasure of meeting you during the wedding, so we couldn't relay our gratitude for hosting the celebration. As a thank you, I humbly prepared an omiyage from Snezhnaya.” – from one of the numerous bags, you introduced a carefully wrapped parcel as a travel gift. “A matryoshka doll. A local craft. This way, if you feel like throwing away any more puppets, I won't have to worry about you harming what's now mine.” 

Your tender smile alluded to The Shrine Maiden and the Balladeer. Such a simple statement, yet your gentleness was no mere ornament of character. So much bite into your gift. Clearly, Yae regarded you as a fine opponent. Scaramouche, for his part, who was silent in shock, had to conceal his own awe. 

“All business concluded now, Scara?” 

“Fortunately, yes. Let us take our leave.” 

With formal farewells exchanged and measured bows offered, the two of you left Narukami Shrine. Or rather, from Yae’s vantage, you left with a rather giddy puppet trailing in tow, eager to intertwine his hand with yours the moment the doors slid closed.

✧ Months after the pretend honeymoon vacation, Pantalone kept gloating about his marriage to you as if it were a trophy worth polishing. In his residency, he hummed a chipper tune while he framed his favorite photos of the recent trip: 

The Regrator smiled merrily into the camera while he held you hostage in his embrace. A picturesque landscape of Liyue can be seen in the background. 

Pantalone, smiling to the camera again, presenting an absurdly massive carnival plushie to you. It’s hard to tell whether you were glaring at him or the big plushie.

Oh, this one is his favorite! Pantalone is under the shade of an umbrella with you in a Fontanian resort. He’s grinning the same way, and you’re scowling the same way. At least, you’re wearing a cute summer hat. 

Truly joyful memories. 

“There we go. The photos have been set up on our study’s wall, darling. Aren’t they just wonderful?”  

From your place upon the chaise, you cast him a passing glance. “Mhm, they hang like in a museum. Now you can summon all your friends to boast about how much mora you put on this trip alone.”

“Tsk, tsk. Darling. This isn’t about the mora spent on leisure. It’s about us going on a romantic trip for newlyweds.”

“A pretend romantic trip,” – you corrected lowly.

“... Pretend, yes.” – Pantalone repeated in hushed murmur, before averting his focus from the photos towards you “But that’s what our contract ensued. And we fulfilled it to the best of our abilities. Aren’t you satisfied with the arrangement?”

“We did, certainly. Though you tend to forget, dear, that people marry and go on honeymoon not to fulfill a contract but to celebrate sincerely.”

At first, the Harbinger took his seat in composed silence beside you. He was not oblivious to your discontent with the arrangement made by Her Majesty the Tsaritsa. Not that you two don’t get along, but you were always a person of sincerity, not duplicity. Thus, the Regrator clasped his hands cheerfully together. 

“Ah, you’re right. Then perhaps, we should file for a divorce as soon as possible! A pretend divorce, so that I can immediately propose and we can go on the same honeymoon without pretense this time! What do you think?”

“Pfft- you’re ridiculous, Pantalone.” 

At least, The Regrator managed to draw a smile out of you. He joined along with a chuckle, before his own thoughts grasped him in a looming shadow. He quietly asked:

“...If I had to propose to you, not as a Harbinger, or as Pantalone, would you have said yes then?”

You did not reply. You cast your gaze aside, as if your own answer was a melancholic thought of what could’ve been under mundane circumstances. If you and he were untouched by present titles and bargains. Just regular people, working, falling in love, getting married, living in their own world. Instead, you only gave him a single glimmer of longing with a simple statement: “I wish I had known you before you became the 9th.”

His eyebrows slowly raised. But Pantalone didn’t dare to utter another word on that topic. 

“You know, we may have fulfilled the obligation with the honeymoon phase, but we did miss one additional footnote in our contract,” – He returned to his usual smugness as he pushed his glasses. His smile always alluded to trouble. “It’s not obligatory by any means, but usually, young married couples also may end up with a child after a while! What do you think?”

Silence between you two. 

You stared him dead in the eyes. “Alright. Get ready. You’re getting pregnant, Pantalone.” 

If glasses could crack from sheer bafflement of their wearer, his would shatter in that moment. The Harbinger decided not to play with fire today. 

“N-... Nevermind. I concede.”

That, however, was not a problem. Zhongli had waited six thousand years. In that time, he learned how to shape himself, his views, his convictions, even the core of his being, into something that might better suit the Creator’s tastes. Devotion, after all, was an act of constant refinement. At times, he allowed himself to daydream. He imagined presenting them with his life’s work and waiting, measured and silent, for their judgment. Would they approve of Liyue as it stood? Of the way he had ruled, the choices he had made, the sacrifices demanded across millennia? Would they find fault in him? He decided it would not matter. If they were displeased, if there was anything they wished changed, he would see it done. Land could be torn asunder. The heavens themselves, which tethered the world to the sky, could be challenged and overthrown. Should the flaw prove to be himself, then he would correct that as well. Thus, when an imposter was discovered, and the Creator’s displeasure became unmistakably clear, Zhongli did not hesitate. As a faithful servant ought, he took it upon himself to remove the problem.

His first impression of you, however, brings his carefully laid plans to a halt. A week after the announcement of your existence, he finally finds you. The moment his eyes settle on you, he freezes, utterly still, as though the world itself has paused around him. His heart sinks, an unfamiliar weight settling low in his chest as he watches you seated by the riverbank, the quiet radiance of your existence rippling outward through the water. For a fleeting moment, the instinct to kneel nearly overtakes him. He suppresses it at once. That impulse is misplaced. Reverence belongs to the Creator alone. What unsettles him now is nothing more than the sight of your reflection trembling in the current, a trick of light and water that stirs something it has no right to.

That must be it.

Surely, it is only your mirrored image, one that reflects the creator, that confounds his loyalties—nothing more.

His second impression of you is this: you are frustratingly difficult to kill.

At first, he makes easy work of you. There is nothing dramatic about it, just red blood spilled, the abrupt drain of colour from your skin, a heartbeat that falters and fades far too quickly. If he wished, he could have ensured it was final. He could have ordered your body burned, or cast from one of Liyue’s many cliffs, erased so thoroughly that even rumour would struggle to remember you. But it was late. He was expected to return before sunrise, and the inconvenience of further effort outweighed its necessity. The matter seemed settled enough as it was. He would attend to your body in the morning, once the light had fully left your eyes and there could be no lingering doubt. It was not as though you could cause any further trouble in his absence.

One can imagine, then, his surprise when he returned the following morning, no less than twelve hours later, to find you gone. Not merely absent, but erased, without a single trace left behind. Were he anyone else, he might have called it a miracle. The blood had vanished as though it had been dissolved into the earth itself, or carried away by the river that thundered against the rocks where he had left you. Nothing to suggest a body had ever lain there at all. The likelihood of scavengers having found you was far lower than he would have preferred to believe. And that, more than the emptiness of the riverbank, unsettled him.

His instincts prove correct soon enough, as word of you reaches him from Inazuma. He ought to feel relieved. The matter is no longer his to resolve; it has passed into the hands of another nation. He is free to return to the Creator’s side, where he belongs, unburdened by unfinished duty. This should be a blessing. And yet— A single, treacherous thought coils in his mind. Why is it them, and not him? Zhongli knows he should not indulge such feelings. Jealousy has no place in devotion. If there is anger stirring within him, it should be directed at you, for slipping beyond his grasp, for unsettling the Creator with your continued existence. That is the proper interpretation. That is what he tells himself.

Still, the nights stretch long and restless. He lies awake, thoughts circling where they should not, imagining what it might be like to find you again—to stand before you once more, and lay his eyes upon your visage with nothing left between them but truth.

His third impression, he decides, is one of hate.

You occupy his thoughts with an unforgiving persistence. Despite how little he truly remembers of you, you consume every waking moment, and the moments that should have been given to sleep. Nights find him kneeling before the small shrine he has built for the Creator, hands steady, posture reverent, as if ritual alone might absolve him. He knows himself to be a righteous man. That certainty changes nothing. He can feel you. He can see you as you were—sunlight caught in your hair, warmth spilling across the river’s surface, the glow of your presence almost caressing his form as you gazed down at your own reflection. The memory is unbidden, vivid, intolerable.

This is not his fault. He refuses to believe it is.

It is you, the deviant, who sparked this flame. And so he prays. No, he begs, for your fire not to sear him to flesh and mind, even as it continues to burn him all the same. He prays for his creator to deliver him from this sin, he stays kneeling at the shrine for the better half of the nights coming, as he can almost feel the fire burning him.

Meanwhile, you lie half-dead in the white snow, the aftermath of Inazuma’s failed witch hunt etched into every trembling breath you take. The cold has numbed you to pain, leaving only a dull, drifting awareness as shadows loom overhead.

A man stands above you, his face hidden behind a mask, his gaze unreadable as it settles upon your broken form. Without haste, he bends and gathers you into his arms, disturbingly gentle in contrast to the violence that brought you here.

After all, you are in need of a doctor. And his services, he decides, are open.

Dottore’s first impression of you, however, is a simple one: you had been outcast.

News of an imposter was hardly remarkable. Such rumours surfaced whenever devotion curdled into excess, when those zealous in their loyalty to you, or rather, to the deceiver wearing your name—rushed headlong into outrage. To be hunted like an animal and yet survive it was no small feat. Even he could acknowledge that it required a formidable mind. He is not surprised when the truth reveals itself so plainly: the true god lies broken in the snow, while the false one sits comfortably upon a throne. That your people failed to recognize the difference speaks less to your deception than to their lack of rigor. Disappointing, really.

He could almost sympathize with you, almost. With the sheer amount of time and energy you had poured into this world, with everything you had endured simply to survive within a place you had once cared for, just to make it this far. He finds himself wondering whether you had ever considered giving up. Surely the repetition, the endless cycle of pursuit and survival, must have worn you down eventually. But you did not surrender, instead, you fled. In his opinion, that was the wiser choice.

He makes easy work of you. There is nothing poetic about it, blood spilled, colour draining from your face, a heartbeat faltering and fading. A flaw, yes, but a correctable one. Were it anyone else on his table, survival would have been impossible.

And yet.

Despite his certainty, despite the precision of his work, he finds himself surprised when the following morning arrives, no less than ten hours later, to find you alive. Very much alive, in fact. There is a heartbeat, faint, erratic, but it exists all the same. Your pulse is nearly imperceptible, so weak it takes two fingers pressed firmly into the side of your throat to coax it into being. The touch of ice-cold skin against your warmth draws a response from you at last. You stir, barely. A twitch of your fingertips, a subtle flutter beneath your eyelids, minimal reaction, but functional nonetheless. His gaze travels with quiet precision, bruises bloom along your arms in mottled shades of violet and yellow, mapping violence in the abstract. Near your collarbone, a scar curves like a bolt of lightning, jagged and unmistakable. He pauses there, curious. He wonders, not for the first time, how you found the strength to reach Snezhnaya at all, let alone endure its winter for so long in such a state. His musings did not matter in the end. They do not change the fact that the world that had once adored you had treated you most cruelly—and he could fix that.

His second impression settles in with unexpected clarity.

You are endearing. Like a frightened little rabbit, bloodied and shaking, still running despite the certainty of pursuit. Prey that refuses to lie down and die, even as the predators, unsated, relentless, follow the trail you leave behind. It is almost cute, he thinks, in a pitifully misguided way. A futile, stubborn instinct for survival clinging on long after it should have been extinguished. If he were a lesser man, unburdened by reason, he might have called it a miracle. He almost does. For what else could your continued existence be? You live as though the heavens themselves have intervened, not in the way of the blessed, but in the way a wounded rabbit lives when surrounded by starving wolves. Only instead of a forest, you awaken in a laboratory.

And that is where you remain.

Not that you ever truly had a choice.

Despite his adamant insistence that you were not what they accused you of, leaving would have placed you at the mercy of others—and, in truth, there was no mercy to be found there at all. After everything that had followed your arrival in this world, falling into a game only to be branded an imposter, hunted, and treated as though you were not human, the last person you ever expected to save you was Dottore. Even days after your near death, you still could not make sense of him. What he deemed worthy of his time and what he dismissed as frivolous waste seemed governed by a logic entirely his own. You supposed you should be grateful that you had fallen into the former category. Otherwise, your body might have been the next one laid out upon his vivisection table.

Lately, all your mornings begin the same way. You wake two hundred or so feet below ground,(at least that’s what he told you), buried beneath satin sheets in an otherwise empty bed. Blearily, you force yourself upright and stumble onto the floor, grimacing as the cold bites into your bare feet—the thin rug doing little to soften the shock. Snezhnaya’s temperatures rarely rise above freezing, and while the doctor appears wholly unbothered by the cold, you are not so resilient. The chill serves as an unwelcome reminder of your fragility, of your mortality, made painfully clear since your arrival here. Your gaze drifts to the bandages wrapped firmly around your arms, and your mouth tightens. On the bedside table waits a cup of tea, milky and rich, its familiar blend offering a small, fragile comfort to your mornings. You learned, not long ago, that it is not brought by the doctor himself, but by another version of him—after waking one morning to find a face with no eyes, only metal, staring down at you.

After you finish the tea, you spend the next stretch of the morning resting in bed, strict orders, ones you do not dare to disobey. You read, when you can be bothered, which isn’t often, but when you can you can choose one of the many books he has left for you to stave off boredom. It startles you, at first, to realize you understand the words on the page without ever having learned the language. There is little else to occupy your time. You could, in theory, join him while he works, linger at the edge of his presence. But the laboratory repels you. The cloying scent of rot and preservatives turns your stomach the moment you cross the threshold, and the dark, congealed puddles on the floor burn themselves into your vision long after you look away.

You choose the bed instead.

Sleep, however, refuses to come. Ever since the hunt, you have been trapped in a hollow state of wakefulness, an endless limbo of insomnia. No matter how long you lie upon the soft mattress, your body twisting restlessly beneath the sheets, rest remains just out of reach. You yearn for sleep with an aching intensity, but it never answers you. It isn’t as though it bothers you all that much. Most days, simply getting up and moving feels like an insurmountable task. It’s not that you don’t know you should, you do, but there’s a persistent fog in your mind that dulls every intention, makes effort feel distant and unimportant. And so, you remain in bed.

You no longer feel like yourself—if that’s even the right way to put it. The truth is, you don’t feel anything at all. It is almost like screaming without ever hearing a sound leave your mouth.

Occasionally, Dottore comes himself to check on your condition, carving out time despite the countless experiments demanding his attention. The doctor increases your medication. Beyond the usual painkillers, he takes it upon himself to administer various vitamins, an occasional sedative to coax you into sleep, and other substances you eventually stop asking about. He replaces your bandages with practiced efficiency, and sometimes, unasked, he helps you wash. Unallowing to let you wallow in your own filth. You never want him to. The first time, even through your hoarse, broken voice, you refuse as firmly as you can. It makes no difference. You find yourself wondering whether he ever feels embarrassed. After all this time in such close proximity, you imagine that if you were to ask him outright, he would launch into one of his long, indulgent lectures, how a true scholar stands above such trivialities, how emotions like embarrassment are inefficiencies best discarded, how he is untouched by sentiment altogether.

You do not believe him. There must be something, buried somewhere beneath the layers of intellect and calculation. He is simply very good at hiding it. Otherwise, you cannot fathom why he would have saved you that day at all.

In that regard, your first impression of him is nothing like what you expected. When you played Genshin, you knew Dottore only through fragments and reputation, the conflict with Diluc, the countless lives taken, the long list of atrocities catalogued neatly in the lore. It was easy enough to acknowledge those horrors from a distance, from the safety of a world that could be exited at will. Living inside it, however, is different.

Here, he is not the caricature of a villain you anticipated. There are moments, rare, fleeting, where something almost like kindness surfaces, if you squint and catch him in the right light. It unsettles you more than outright cruelty ever could. You tell yourself he must be gaining something from this—that it is only a matter of time before your guard slips and you find yourself laid out upon his vivisection table. The reasoning is sound enough in your mind. And yet, as time passes and nothing changes, no hidden cruelty revealed, no sudden turn toward violence, the excuses you cling to begin to crumble.

There is always a brief moment of silence when Dottore enters the room, as though he is observing you before deciding to approach, before the routine resumes.

“Can you hear me?” he asks, every time. As if you are both still caught in those first days, when he had found you broken in the snow and you lay unresponsive after the surgery. You manage a half-hearted reply, thin and automatic, and that seems to satisfy him.

He guides you toward the en-suite bathroom, the bath already drawn. You do not remember hearing anyone come in to prepare it, but memory has become unreliable these days. You are not entirely present anymore. You undress with reluctant, mechanical movements. Despite everything, your weakness, your dependence, there remains a stubbornly human part of you that understands embarrassment. By the time you lower yourself into the tub, without clothing and dignity, the water closes around you as if an embrace.

He is oddly gentle with you. He forgoes a sponge, choosing instead to use his hands, lathered with a soap that lacks the sharp sting of chemicals—likely chosen to avoid irritating your sensitive scars and still-healing wounds. His touch moves methodically, ensuring no stretch of skin is left unattended. He never asks for permission. He simply lifts your arm above your head to wash beneath it, efficient and precise. He is not rough. And perhaps, in some distant, numbed part of you, there is a strange relief in not having to do anything yourself. Eventually, you close your eyes.

The silence settles between you, as it always does. The doctor moves his hands along your sides, deliberate and precise. Your eyes remain closed, but you imagine what you would see: the unblinking figure of him, the mask rendering his gaze impassive yet unnervingly attentive, studying you as though committing every detail to memory. Every muscle that tenses, every subtle shift of your body, nothing escapes him. Perhaps it amuses him, the knowledge that he can elicit a reaction from a god with nothing but his own touch, bending you, contorting you, shaping your response to suit him. He has always been fascinated by such things: the way bodies betray themselves, the predictable mathematics of stimuli and reaction.

Perhaps, had this been when you first arrived, you would have been tense—unable to meet his eyes, barely able to resist flinching at his touch. Now, if you were to react the same way, you can almost hear his voice, dry and precise, the same as when you first came to him: “And here I thought we had moved past your naïve embarrassment.” You imagine the faint lift of his tone, the implied amusement. But now, your mind is occupied with everything and nothing all at once, an oxymoron that makes even the simplest thought slippery. It is frustratingly difficult to name your emotions when they exist as one undifferentiated mass. Back then, you might have felt shame, disgust, fear, anger, sometimes all at once. Yet even those labels never quite fit. Now, at this moment, you do not have the capacity, or perhaps the desire, to look any deeper into yourself.

Once he deems you clean, he steps back, leaving you bare, exposed in the cold air. Every inch of you falls under his scrutiny. You cannot see his eyes behind the mask, but you feel them, red, unblinking, meticulous, tracking each tremor, each involuntary twitch you make standing there. The weight of his attention presses down on you, making the room smaller, the air heavier. For a moment, you almost want to sink back into the bathwater.

You shift uneasily from foot to foot, your muscles tight, your skin crawling as if aware of his invisible hands still cataloguing you. Perhaps he will circle you, but he does not. He waits instead. Then comes the faint, deliberate click of his tongue, the sound of approval.

“Your condition is improving. Good.”

It is different from before, when he would prod and test your wounds and scars, studying the way skin and flesh healed under his scrutiny. But Dottore is never predictable; he is too clever to fall into that pattern twice. Dottore’s satisfaction is quiet but still evident. You feel it in the faint curve of his lips and the subtle shift of his posture. Although, around you he always appears to be rather pleased with himself.

After his careful observation, he gestures for you to step forward. Without a word, he takes the towel and begins to dry you himself. Every movement is deliberate, measured, his hands moving over your skin with the precision of a sculptor shaping clay. There is a strange reverence in the way he touches you, a quiet devotion that borders on worship. He attends to every limb with the same meticulous care, and gradually, you go limp in his hands, your body surrendering to his methodical attention. When there is nothing to soften your grief, it ends up softening you to the one before you. When he kneels to dry your legs, your hands find their way to his shoulders almost instinctively. He does not flinch, does not shift, does not react, yet the stillness of his acceptance presses in on you, and you are aware of every careful motion.

It is during moments like this that Dottore considers himself truly fortunate. Perhaps, for once in his life, he even entertains the notion that fate is real. That he was cast out from his birthplace, only for the creator of this world to fall victim to that same cruelty—how neatly the pattern aligns. How alike you are. He wonders if you are, in some sense, his creation: a being exiled from your natural environment, stumbling through the world like a new-born, instinctively imprinting upon him as the first figure you encountered upon waking. The thought is… pleasing. Perhaps that is a lie.

Perhaps it had always been the other way around. Perhaps he was the one born into a world that rejected him, and it was you who held him, unknowingly, unknowably, in your arms. Perhaps it was he who imprinted upon you.

It is only after he has finished drying you, back in your room, your bed layered with silks, soft throws, and warm blankets, your nightclothes returned to you, that he allows himself a look that can only be called fondness. One hand traces small circles over the skin of your collarbone peeking through fabric, while the other tugs the blankets snugly around you. His eyes drift over your form one last time before it is hidden, as though committing the sight to memory, savouring every detail as if it were the most fascinating thing he has ever encountered.

But it is not fascination in the way mortals might understand. Divinity, he reminds himself, is reserved for him alone, as he is starkly reminded as his gaze lingers on you, lying there in the bed before him. Still, it takes all his willpower not to break into a grin.

You are, he realizes, utterly perfect for him.

It is almost exhilarating, knowing your life is entirely in his hands, your divinity, your very existence, your very self. His fingers tighten around the blankets. Really, he thinks, he deserves this. After everything he has endured, after all he has accomplished, having his own divinity delivered almost effortlessly to his doorstep is more satisfying than he could have imagined.

You do not realize your eyes have closed, drifting into a dreamless sleep. Dottore remains hovering over you, unbothered by your sudden surrender to unconsciousness. His hand, long released from the blankets, rests in your hair, fingers tracing through it as if memorizing its texture. He murmurs to himself, low vibrations threading through the quiet room, and though you cannot make out the words, the sound is oddly comforting as you sink deeper into slumber. For a fleeting instant, you imagine waking tomorrow in your own bed, finally home.

But you know the truth. With the memory of his hands resting on your collarbone, threading through your hair, you will awaken not in safety, but in the laboratory. And there, as always, is where you will remain.

He doesn’t believe in love.

At least—not in the way other people talk about it.

To Dottore, love is a mistake in terminology. Too emotional, too imprecise, too human. He would rather call it an anomaly, a deviation, an unstable reaction to an external stimulus. That’s safer. More logical. Easier to maintain his composure in front of himself.

At first, he doesn’t notice anything unusual.Just interest. He lets his gaze linger a little longer. He asks questions a little more often — questions with no practical value. He gets slightly less irritated when the object of that interest invades his personal space — the same space that is forbidden territory for everyone else. He attributes it to professional deformation: a rare specimen, an unusual psychotype, curious material for observation.

But over time, cracks begin to appear in his behavior.

He starts coming back.

Not because he has to, but because he wants to check whether you’re still there.

He doesn’t say that he missed you. He says,

“I expected different results.”

He doesn’t acknowledge attachment, yet he catches himself irritated by your absence—an irritation similar to a failed experiment.

The most frightening thing for him isn’t the feeling itself.

The most frightening thing is the loss of control.

When Dottore realizes he’s in love, it doesn’t happen through emotion — it happens through analysis. He records the symptoms:

• intrusive thoughts;

• reduced interest in unrelated subjects;

• an irrational desire to protect rather than use;

• a disproportionately strong reaction to any potential threat to you.

And in that moment, he is consumed by rage. Not outward rage — internal, cold, silent. He despises the very idea that someone has become his weakness. That a single person can destabilize his system.

He tries to get rid of it.

He becomes sharper, colder, deliberately pushes you away. He tests it: if he hurts you, will the feeling disappear? If you leave, will it get easier? He watches you as if conducting an experiment, yet every step you take away from him triggers a strange, viscous sensation in his chest — one that defies classification.

And then he stops fighting.

Not because he accepted love. But because he realized it can be used.

Dottore does not become gentle. He does not become soft. His love is not flowers or confessions. It is control, attention, absolute involvement. He remembers everything: your habits, fears, weaknesses, the ways you calm yourself. He knows when you’re lying, when you’re tired, when you’re in pain — sometimes before you do.

If you’re near him, you’re under protection. Not out of mercy. Out of ownership.

He doesn’t show jealousy openly. He doesn’t make scenes. But if someone poses a threat — that person disappears from your life. Quietly. Without explanations. Sometimes you don’t even realize how it happened — you just feel that the world around you has become safer, cleaner, emptier.

In intimacy, he is terrifyingly attentive. His touches are precise, calculated, almost investigative, yet there is no coldness in them. On the contrary — he holds you as if afraid of losing you, even if he never says it aloud. Sometimes he freezes with his forehead pressed to your shoulder, as if listening to his own breathing, checking whether this moment is real.

He doesn’t say “I love you.”

But he says:“Stay.”

And for him, that is the utmost honesty.

If you betray him — he won’t forgive.

If you leave — he will search.

If you die — he will try to bring you back.

Dottore’s love is not salvation.It is not romance.It is an experiment without a final stage — one in which, for the first time, he does not want to know the result in advance.

And perhaps that is what frightens him the most.

Against the background of his inferiority complex and his rejection of human emotions and human nature — without really distinguishing between them — it would be incredibly difficult for him to accept a feeling people call “love.” Such irrational things evoke nothing but anger in him.

In truth, there are two possible outcomes with him. The first is described above — if his interest deepens and his patience holds once he becomes involved. The second is your inevitable death, simply because you become something that interferes with him.