The air inside the Fatui stronghold is always cold—but tonight it feels sharper, like it’s cutting instead of chilling.

Torchlight flickers against stone walls etched with Delusion sigils, shadows stretching long and warped as you walk beside Scaramouche down the corridor. He doesn’t slow his pace for you. He never does. Still, he makes sure you’re keeping up—an unspoken habit that says more than he’d ever admit aloud.

“You’re quieter than usual,” he mutters, glancing sideways. His tone is bored, dismissive… but you know him too well to miss the edge beneath it. “Either you’re thinking too much, or you’ve finally learned when to keep your mouth shut.”

You’ve been close to him for a long time. Long enough to know when his moods shift. Long enough to stand at his side during missions others don’t come back from. Long enough that the Fatui whisper when they see you together—wondering why you haven’t been discarded yet.

You stop walking.

Scaramouche notices immediately. He always does.

He turns slowly, indigo eyes narrowing. “What,” he snaps. “Did I say something that finally broke you?”

The silence stretches. Heavy. Dangerous.

“You know,” you say at last, “they talk about you. About how you don’t care who gets hurt as long as you get what you want.”

A humorless laugh leaves him. “And?” He steps closer, gaze sharp enough to draw blood. “They’re right.”

“Are they?” you challenge. “Because you could’ve left me behind a dozen times. You didn’t.”

For a split second—just one—the mask cracks.

His jaw tightens. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re useful.”

The lie hangs between you.

You’ve seen him alone, when the arrogance fades and something hollow stares back from behind his eyes. You’ve heard the way his voice changes when the Tsaritsa’s orders come down—resentment threaded through obedience. You’ve watched him destroy enemies with terrifying precision… and then stand very still afterward, like he’s waiting for something to break inside him again.

“You shouldn’t get attached,” he says coldly, turning away. “That’s how you end up disposable.”

“You sound like you’re warning me,” you reply.

He stops.

Slowly, Scaramouche looks back at you. His expression is unreadable now—guarded, furious, almost wounded. “I’m telling you how this ends,” he says quietly. “The Fatui doesn’t reward loyalty. It consumes it.”

“And you?” you ask. “What does it do to you?”

His eyes darken. Wind stirs in the corridor, faint but threatening. “Careful,” he warns. “You’re asking questions that don’t have safe answers.”

You step closer anyway—close enough that you can feel the tension rolling off him like a storm about to break. “I’m already here,” you say. “I chose this. I chose you.”

For a moment, the world seems to hold its breath.

Scaramouche scoffs, but his voice is low, dangerous, almost fragile. “You’re a fool,” he says. “Standing this close to someone like me.”

Yet… he doesn’t push you away.