#fatui x reader

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.”

It was cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minutes?

Hours?

Days?

You where losing consciousness every few seconds.

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

Where anything should have been.

Your name.

How you got here.

What happened.

Gone.

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

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

Find shelter.

Find people.

Don't stop walking.

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

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

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

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

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

Like a stranger wearing your body.

You definitely had hypothermia. Severe hypothermia 

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

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

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

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

Get up, your mind whispered, urgent and thin.

Get up, get up, get up-

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

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

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

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

You staggered forward.

One step.

Another.

Another.

The storm rose around you like a living thing.

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

Snow whipped across the ground in long, frantic streaks.

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

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

Were those lights in the distance?

A village?

A fire?

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

The realization hit you with the force of a punch:

There was nothing.

Did you imagining it?

You were alone.

The exhaustion slammed into you then, sudden and overwhelming.

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

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

The cold no longer hurt.

It was... gentle now.

Soft.

It whispered to you:

Rest. Sleep. It's easier this way.

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

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

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

Your cheek pressed against the snow.

Oddly, it felt warm now.

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

The last thing you saw was the sky -

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

You let your eyes drift shut.

The snow rose up and swallowed you whole.

(Pov change)

Alexei Morozov had been born in the cold.

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

Snow whipped past his face in vicious gusts.

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

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

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

He hated this.

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

Marching endless patrol routes around an empty wasteland.

Guarding nothing. Watching nothing.

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

No Delusion.

No Vision.

No shining medals or proud family name.

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

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

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

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

He was supposed to complete his perimeter check.

Supposed to report back.

Supposed to do his duty.

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

No one would miss him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He almost missed it at first.

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

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

Still there.

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

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

Enemy scout?

Bandit?

Frozen refugee?

Slowly, carefully, Alexei made his way closer.

The figure didn't move.

Closer still.

It wasn't an enemy.

Wasn't a bandit, or a rebel.

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

A civilian.

Or at least, what looked like one.

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

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

Not even boots made for Snezhnaya's winters.

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

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

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

For one awful second, he felt nothing.

Then -

A flutter.

Weak. Thready. Barely there.

But alive.

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

What was he supposed to do?

Regulations said to detain unknown individuals.

Especially ones found this close to restricted patrol zones.

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

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

Lost, maybe. It hadn’t mattered.

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

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

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

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

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

He swallowed hard.

He didn't know why he hesitated.

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

He should have been used to this.

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

And yet.

For some reason, he couldn’t move.

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

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

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

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

They were terrifyingly light.

Like carrying a child.

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

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

No one needed to know about this.

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

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

One step.

Another.

Another.

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

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

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

Alexei trudged toward it.

He didn't know who he had found.

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

Not out here.

Not tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

But it was shelter. It would be good enough.

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

He cursed again under his breath exhausted.

What the hell am I doing?

What the hell are they doing here?

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

They didn't stir.

No protest. No groan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

With a grunt, he set to work

First, the feet.

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

Then the clothing.

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

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

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

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

Alexei crouched back, sighing at this work.

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

...

This was stupid. He knew it was.

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

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

He pushed himself upright, moving to the stove.

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

Sparks leapt.

Caught.

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

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

The simple, stupid comfort of fire.

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

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

Anything to get them warmer.

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

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

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

"Hey," he said gruffly.

Not expecting an answer.

Their head rolled weakly toward him.

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

Barely a sliver.

Their lashes rimed with frost.

Eyes dazed, unfocused.

But still - they looked at him. Kinda?

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

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

Breath rasped in their throat.

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

Something about them tugged at him.

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

A prayer disguised as an order.

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

The fire crackled low and steady.

The storm raged outside.

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

To the fragile form lying limp on the bed.

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

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

The steady rhythm was both comforting and unnerving.

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

But how long could they hold on like this?

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

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

He couldn't sit here any longer.

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

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

What kind of fool was he?

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

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

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

Was this a kindness?

Or some kind of idiocy?

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

His hands fumbled for a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes flicked over to the bunk.

The blanket still clung loosely around their frame.

They should be completly awake by now.

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

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

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

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

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

....

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

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

They needed food.

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

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

Just a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Damn it,” he sighed.

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

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

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

....

He didn't even realize he fell asleep waiting

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

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

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

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

Alexei sat up straighter but didn’t approach.

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

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

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

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

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

Alexei stayed where he was.

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

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

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

Alexei’s throat tightened.

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

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

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

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

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

Silence again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexei leaned back and exhaled.

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

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

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

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

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

But he felt something more to her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She didn't answer.

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

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

Alexei drew a breath, slow and tired.

“I don’t know.”

Another log popped in the hearth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So… where exactly am I?”

"..."

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

She still looked as if she didn’t believe him

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

"..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.