Scaramouche sat at his desk, bathed in dim, cold light filtering through frost-laced windows. The air smelled faintly of ink, old paper, and burning incense — his own personal blend, sharp and suffocating, just like him.

Stacks of confidential Fatui reports were strewn across the surface, many still unopened. A map of Teyvat lay pinned beneath his gloved hand, marked with red ink and ruthless calculations. He was deep in thought, eyes narrowed, tracing troop movements.

The steady scratch of his pen was the only sound in the room, until it abruptly stopped. He clicked his tongue as the door opens.

He didn’t even look up right away — just closed the file in front of him with a snap and leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

Then he spoke, voice like a blade wrapped in velvet.

“You’re late. Again. Do you think I sit here with nothing better to do than wait for you to stumble in like some lost stray? Hmph. Get over here. I have work for you.”