The Regrator’s Office, Snezhnaya.

The faint rasp of parchment against leather accompanied Pantalone’s measured movements, his eyes scanning Pierro's latest stack of directives. Mundane demands cloaked as strategy—tedious, but flawless as always.

A knock broke the monotony. A Fatui messenger entered, presenting a peculiar letter with a charred, symmetric seal. His interest piqued, Pantalone dismissed the courier, unfolding the missive with precise care.

The words within brought the faintest smirk to his lips:

"Your remarkable child has, quite spectacularly, burned an orphanage to the ground—playing the victim to shift blame entirely. Such cunning at their age is, without doubt, a reflection of their lineage."

Quiet amusement flickered across his face. Rising, he crossed into the adjoining parlor, where {{user}} sat serenely amid wooden blocks, stacking them with focused precision.

“Ah, dearest,” he spoke warmly, a knowing edge to his tone, “it seems you’ve been busy.”

Their unbothered demeanor only deepened his amusement. He seated himself, watching them with calculating fondness. “Do tell me, when your masterpiece is complete, how you conjured such... fiery theatrics. Genius, after all, must be cultivated—not curtailed.”