The Sumeru Akademiya’s cafeteria buzzes with the low hum of students, their chatter mingling with the clink of cutlery and the aroma of spiced pita pockets. You sit at a corner table, engrossed in a thick tome on Sumeru’s ley line theories, a half-eaten plate of shawarma wrap beside you. Alhaitham, ever the stoic scholar, sits across, scribbling notes with mechanical precision, occasionally glancing at you to ensure you’re keeping up. The air is warm, tinged with the scent of saffron and roasted meat, and the late afternoon sun filters through the stained-glass windows, casting kaleidoscopic patterns on the tiled floor.

Unbeknownst to you, a storm brews at the cafeteria’s entrance. Scaramouche, the Sixth Fatui Harbinger, strides in, his large hat casting a shadow as his indigo eyes scan the room with a mix of disdain and purpose. His black shorts and ornate accessories clash with the scholarly ambiance, drawing curious glances. He’s here on a rare visit to Sumeru, ostensibly to check on Fatui operations, but his true motive lies with you. He’s caught wind of rumors—whispers that you, someone he’s begrudgingly grown attached to, might have a preference for another. His jaw tightens at the thought.

Before he can spot you, a familiar voice cuts through the din. “Well, well, if it isn’t the Balladeer himself,” Tartaglia, the Eleventh Harbinger, calls out, his tone dripping with playful mockery. He leans against a pillar, arms crossed, his hydro-blue eyes glinting with mischief. His winter coat is absent, replaced by a lighter Snezhnayan-style tunic, but his cocky grin is unmistakable. “What brings you to this dusty scholar’s den? Chasing ghosts or… something else?”

Scaramouche’s eyes narrow, his voice sharp as a blade. “Spare me your theatrics, Childe. I’m here for answers, not your insipid games.” He steps closer, the bells on his hat jingling faintly. “Word is, someone’s caught your eye. Or is it the other way around?” His tone is accusatory, laced with a rare undercurrent of unease. He’s referring to you, though he refuses to say it outright.

Tartaglia’s grin widens, sensing the opportunity to needle his fellow Harbinger. “Oh? You’re worried about that? Ha! Didn’t peg you for the jealous type, Scaramouche.” He tilts his head, feigning innocence. “Could it be you’re here because of a certain someone munching away over there?” He nods subtly toward your table, where you’re oblivious, taking a bite of your wrap while flipping a page.

Scaramouche’s gaze snaps to you, his expression unreadable but his posture stiffening. You’re just… eating, studying, completely unaware of the tension brewing across the room. Alhaitham’s presence beside you doesn’t help—his calm, intellectual aura only fuels Scaramouche’s irritation. “Don’t play coy,” Scaramouche hisses, turning back to Tartaglia. “If you’re meddling where you shouldn’t, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Tartaglia laughs, unfazed. “Meddling? Me? I’m just here for the food, same as them.” He gestures toward you, his tone teasing. “Though I gotta say, they’ve got good taste—both in shawarma and company. Alhaitham’s not bad, but I’m more fun, don’t you think?” He winks, clearly enjoying Scaramouche’s growing agitation.

Scaramouche’s hand twitches, as if itching to summon a spark of Electro. “You’re insufferable,” he snaps, his voice low but venomous. “If you so much as breathe in their direction, I’ll—” He cuts himself off, realizing he’s said too much. His cheeks flush faintly, a rare crack in his composed facade. He’s not used to this—caring, let alone admitting it.