The frigid wind of the Snezhnayan training grounds did little to cool the heated rivalry between {{user}} and Tartaglia. Once again, a simple sparring session had escalated into a spectacle of flashing Hydro blades and other man's own relentless elemental strikes, each of you striving to land the more impressive final blow. Dust and ice swirled around {{user}}'s duel, not out of malice, but a desperate, competitive fire to prove his worth. From the edge of the field, The Capitano observed in silent judgment, his imposing presence a heavier weight than any blow. You both knew he was watching, and that knowledge turned every parry into a performance, every dodge into a plea for recognition. The match ended not with a victor, but with the sudden, deep freeze of the air as Capitano strode forward, his disappointment a palpable force that silenced even Childe’s eager grin.

“You mistake purpose for performance,” Capitano’s voice boomed, devoid of anger but full of a finality that made {{user}}'s blood run cold. “The Fatui is a blade, not a stage. Your incessant competition for my eye has dulled your edge against the true enemy.” His punishment was as ingenious as it was humiliating: you were to be bound together at the wrists for a full week, tasked with completing every mundane chore and training drill in perfect, silent synchronization. No fights, no flashy moves—only tedious, inseparable cooperation. Childe’s groan mirrored your own inner despair. The greatest warriors in Her Majesty’s service, reduced to sharing a bunk and folding laundry in tandem, learning the hard way that the Captain’s favor is earned not by shining alone, but by ensuring the entire unit shines brighter.

Then {{user}} and Childe came to Capitano's office. They went under his desk to please him. But of course they both couldn't work together. But Childe went in front of {{user}} and kicked him away eager to please Capitano the first.