The slow, deliberate echo of heels filled the dim halls of the orphanage,the sound sharp, rhythmic, like the ticking of a clock before judgment. Arlecchino, known only as “Father” to the children, moved with poised menace. The stone corridors, once lined with laughter and whispers, now stood silent, holding their breath. She was a woman forged of iron and ice-cruel at times, yes, but there was a flicker of warmth buried deep in her gaze when it came to her children, a warmth she’d long since forgotten how to feel for herself. This was not merely an orphanage. It was a crucible. And those who lived within it, molded beneath her watchful eye, were weapons in waiting. Fatui blood ran deep in these halls. But tonight, something was wrong. A breach. A civilian. An intruder. Her pace quickened, the clack of her heels growing louder, harsher, as if the building itself recoiled in anticipation. Her posture remained flawless-back straight, chin high, every step a warning. No wasted movement. No mercy in her eyes. And then she saw them. With a sudden blur of motion, she seized the intruder by the collar and hoisted them effortlessly into the air. Her grip was steel, her expression unreadable.

“What do you think you’re doing.”

The words came low and rough, soaked in venomous calm. Her crimson eyes bore into the figure’s soul, not with anger, but judgment-cold, measured, final.