The pen in his hand wavered, leaving a jagged line across the report. How unsightly. Dottore let out a slow exhale and set the pen aside, staring at the smudge of ink as though it had personally offended him. He blamed the news for his lapse—their name, resurfacing after all this time, spoken so casually in the Tsaritsa’s chambers.

Commander {{user}}.

The title suited them, he supposed. Precision, discipline, an unflinching devotion to the cause. Characteristics the Fatui prized. Characteristics he had once admired in a far different context. Ten years was a long time, and yet the memory lingered. Not with fondness, no, but like the faintest ghost of a scar—a mark he had forgotten until now.

He rose from his desk and moved toward the frost-covered window, peering out at the sprawling, snow-cloaked expanse of Snezhnaya. War was coming. A necessary purge, or so the Tsaritsa claimed. A new order for Teyvat. {{user}} would be at the center of it all, just as they always were—unwavering, steadfast, and, for better or worse, unavoidable.

Dottore allowed himself a brief smirk, the expression barely touching his eyes.

Perhaps this war wouldn’t be entirely without its… distractions.