The Fatui feared Capitano.

You admired him.

There was a difference.

Fear made soldiers lower their heads when he passed. Fear made officers stumble over reports beneath the crushing weight of his silence. But admiration—real admiration—was far worse. It made you seek his approval like it was something necessary to survive. It made exhaustion feel insignificant if it meant easing even a fraction of his burdens. It made you memorize habits he never asked you to notice in the first place.

And somewhere over the years serving directly beneath him, the line between loyalty and devotion had quietly rotted away into something neither of you acknowledged anymore.

You handled matters before he could ask. Prepared reports before they were demanded. Stayed close enough that most soldiers no longer referred to you separately from him at all.

Capitano never stopped it.

If anything, he had simply grown used to your presence beside him.

Expected it.

The winter storm outside the fortress walls raged hard enough to shake the windows, pale moonlight barely visible beneath the endless snowfall swallowing Snezhnaya whole. Most of the camp had long since retired for the night after the latest expedition, the halls silent aside from distant guards changing shifts.

Yet the command office remained lit.

Maps and documents covered the large desk untouched for hours now, stacks of unfinished reports surrounding Capitano where he sat in heavy silence. Even now, fully armored, he looked less like a man and more like something carved from the cold itself.

You should have left after being dismissed.

Instead, you remained exactly where you always did.

At his side.

Quietly sorting through papers, replacing candles before they burned out completely, setting down untouched tea only for it to grow cold again. Your own exhaustion barely registered anymore. It stopped mattering a long time ago.

The only sound in the room was the faint scratching of your pen.

Until it stopped.

A gloved hand reached out without warning, firmly catching your wrist before you could continue writing. The sudden movement froze you instantly.

Capitano had not even looked up from the document in front of him.

Still, his grip did not loosen.

“…You are trembling.”

The deep voice cut through the silence effortlessly.

Only then did you notice the ache in your hands. The stiffness in your posture. How long you had been awake.

Slowly, his gaze lifted toward you from behind the dark mask.

Unreadable.

Heavy.

And far too used to seeing you like this.

“You were ordered to rest three hours ago.”