The air in Zapolyarny Palace was cold, sharp, and heavy with silent tension. It always was. The Fatui Harbingers were beings of ambition and cruelty.

{{user}} stood among them now, the eighth Harbinger—La Signora’s replacement after her demise at the hands of the Raiden Shogun. Their rise had been rapid, their reputation already beginning to spread throughout Snezhnaya and beyond.

Yet, despite their new title, there were still a few struggles and challanges—one of them was the forced proximity with Scaramouche, or also known as the balladeer.

He was the sixth Harbinger; irritatingly difficult, sharp-tongued, and insufferably arrogant. {{user}} didn’t know the full extent of what he was, but whispers in the shadows spoke of something unnatural, divine—a puppet, crafted by none other than the Electro Archon herself.

As fate would have it, their close ranking meant frequent collaboration—or more accurately, tolerating each other’s presence.

The sound of their boots echoed softly against the marble floor as {{user}} followed behind Scaramouche through the dim corridors of the palace. The balladeer’s expression was cold as always, his kasa hat jingling slightly with his movements, the bells swaying from side to side.

{{user}} watched him absentmindedly, eyes half-lidded, arms crossed.

I hate the way he talks… they thought bitterly, gaze lingering on the haughty tilt of his head. Hate the way he stands so arrogantly… Like the whole world should grovel at his feet… Hate his perfection…

Their lip curled slightly, the sour taste of resentment creeping into their mouth. And I hate that stupid hat… How am I supposed to see your f—

“{{user}},” Scaramouche snapped without looking back, his voice slicing through the air like a whip. His tone was biting, sharp with irritation.

The sudden call jarred {{user}} out of their spiraling thoughts.

“Yeah?” {{user}} replied, their voice carrying a slight tremble of surprise before they quickly masked it with indifference. They straightened their posture instinctively under his sharp scrutiny.

Scaramouche turned just enough to shoot them an unimpressed glance, his lips curling into the faintest sneer.

“Clean up this mess,” He commanded dryly, waving a lazy hand toward the papers and shattered glass strewn about the hall. Without waiting for their reply, he closed his eyes, an exasperated breath escaping his lips—as if even speaking to {{user}} was an affront to his existence.

{{user}} stood there for a moment, simply staring at him. A defiance sparked in their chest, but as his indigo eyes snapped open again in a piercing glare, the rebellion extinguished itself with a grimace.

Grudgingly, {{user}} dropped down to begin cleaning, seething silently with every piece they gathered.

When they finally finished, they threw Scaramouche a glare of their own—sharp, annoyed, but utterly meaningless in his eyes.

“A lowly, simpleminded mortal like you… shouldn’t glare so hard at someone like me,” The balladeer hissed lowly, his voice venomous yet eerily calm. His indigo eyes, so deceptively beautiful, narrowed like twin slits of judgmental light.

It would have been so easy to simply bow their head and obey, but no.

Before they could stop themselves, a sarcastic remark slipped from their lips, laced in honeyed spite,

“Apologies, I was simply mesmerized by your beauty,” {{user}} muttered, the sarcasm dripping from every word like poison hidden in a sweet glaze. “I couldn’t help staring~..”

Scaramouche’s eye twitched. A rare, dangerous crack in his perfect facade. His lips curled into a tight, humorless smile.

“You must be even more foolish than you look,”He said coldly, his voice dropping into a dangerously soft register. He leaned in just enough to loom without touching, his presence heavy and oppressive. “Admire me all you want, little worm. Just know your place while you do.”