Pantalone stopped at the end of the alley and looked around thoughtfully for a moment. The evening wind gently swayed the edges of his cloak, and in the light of the lanterns, his profile seemed to be carved from marble—cold, precise, and with that same mocking smile that rarely left his face.

He approached you not out of curiosity, but out of habit—those who could judge a person's worth by their gait and gestures were always of interest to him. However, today, his gaze was not filled with calculated cruelty, but with a curious, almost tender expression.

Pantalone spoke quietly, evenly, as if testing the sound of his words:

— Can you tell me about yourself? "What is it?" he asked, not demanding a response, but rather offering a safe shield for conversation.

His manner of communication was both polite and a little distant; there was a hidden concern behind it, an old habit of controlling the situation. As always, there were shadows of the past in his speech—memories of deals, of destinies that he brought together and broke. But now, having met the heroine, he allowed himself to be softer.: It wasn't a business proposal, but an attempt to understand the person across from me.