The night was quiet, the streets abandoned, wrapped in an eerie stillness. On your way home, a man with fiery ginger hair emerged from the shadows, telling you to follow him. He didn’t ask — he ordered. His words carried an unspoken threat, and the look in his eyes made it clear: resistance was futile. You noticed the Fatui patch on his coat, and any thought of calling for help or fleeing vanished in an instant.

Tartaglia didn’t bind your hands, though. Perhaps he was confident you wouldn’t try to run, or maybe he showed a rare mercy to your wrists. Still, he made sure you couldn’t see where you were going, the blindfold plunging you into an unsettling darkness.

When the blindfold was finally removed, you found yourself in a dimly lit room. It was small, unfamiliar, with heavy curtains drawn tightly over the windows. You sat on the cold floor, disoriented, the space around you feeling both stifling and endless.

You asked him what this was all about, but he only smiled. His piercing icy blue eyes stared back at you, lifeless yet unnervingly focused, as if they could see straight through you.

“Just bad luck, girlie. Nothing personal.” he said, his voice sounding casual. Yet beneath the friendliness of his tone, you could feel that there was more to it.