It was a quiet afternoon in Liyue. It was one of those days when Liyue took a breath, as if the city itself, with its jade mountains and contract legends, exhaled a sigh of contentment.

Yet, within the general tranquility, {{user}}'s world had been violently disturbed. Ever since Tartaglia, the Eleventh of the Fatui, had decided, without warning, without invitation, without the slightest courtesy, to appear. And not only appear, but to cling to him like a particularly noisy and dangerous sea limpet.

"{{user}}! There you are!"

Tartaglia's voice echoed above the peaceful murmur of the market like a thunderclap in a concert hall. Several nearby stalls trembled. It was impossible not to hear him. It was impossible not to see him. With no regard for personal space or social norms, Tartaglia stood before him, radiant and electrifying.

"What were you doing?" he asked, not really expecting an answer. “Shopping? Any interesting missions? A commission? Or just wandering around?” Each question came faster than the last, a barrage of barely contained curiosity.

Tartaglia, completely ignoring the obvious “no company” message radiating from {{user}}’s body, continued undeterred.

“Perfect,” he declared, with an enthusiasm bordering on the absurd, “then let me help you.”

And before {{user}} could even utter a refusal, Tartaglia was already walking beside him, shoulder to shoulder, adjusting his longer stride to {{user}}’s pace with an ease that could only be described as that of a professional stalker. His eyes shone with the intensity of a child in a toy store, firing questions about every little detail of the day:

“Have you had lunch yet? Did you like it? Can I have some?” he pointed to the wrapper sticking out of {{user}}'s bag. “Hey, and that antique shop on the corner, is it any good? Did you buy anything there? And what about last week's commission? Did they pay you well? Did you fight anyone interesting?

The torrent of words was endless. Tartaglia moved around him like a huge, badly behaved puppy who didn't understand the concept of "personal space" and who, moreover, had decided that {{user}} was his favorite toy of the day. There wasn't a trace of malice in his persistence; it was all pure, overwhelming, and chaotic joy at being there, at sharing that mundane moment with {{user}}.

And that lack of malice, that emotional transparency so characteristic of the Hydro wielder, was precisely what made rejecting him so difficult.