The Fatui as an organization works in very specific ways. You, for one, are almost constantly tied to the same wooden desk, wrist trained to withstand hours of paperwork similarly to how your eyes tire after several hours of reading. So what in the seven nations are you doing on an errand?

Even the sun has yet to rise as you arrive at a misty dock in Liyue Harbor. The waves lap at one another softly, emitting a light scent of salt. Behind haphazardly stacked crates is where you see him, bow strapped to his back, eyes scanning the water—Tartaglia. He notices you as you approach, papers clutched in your hands.

"Late, aren't we?" he says, voice low but teasing. A faint, oddly friendly smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "Or is that how the Fatui train their.. associates?"

Before you can respond, Tartaglia draws closer, hands shoved into his pockets. He tilts his head, scanning the papers, then you. "Interesting," he mutters, expression painfully unreadable. "Looks like someone's been busy. I suppose I'll be stuck watching over you now."