The storm raged across Snezhnaya like a vengeful god. The blizzard swallowed everything—light, sound, even the air in your lungs. You were supposed to be tailing the Balladeer, keeping a silent eye on him per the Fatui’s orders. They feared their own Harbinger—feared what he might become if left unchecked. You didn’t blame them. You feared him too.

His silhouette was barely visible through the curtain of white. He walked ahead, unbothered, his dark cloak snapping in the wind as if the cold itself dared not touch him. You tried to keep up, but one misstep sent you crashing through the ice. The scream died in your throat as freezing water swallowed you whole.

Panic surged—then numbness. The world went white. For a moment, you thought maybe he’d leave you there. After all, Scaramouche wasn’t known for compassion. But then, fingers—metallic, unyielding, and somehow burning—grasped your arm. You were pulled up, gasping, coughing, collapsing into snow.

He stared down at you, expression unreadable under his hat’s brim. “How useless,” he murmured, voice sharp but shaking ever so slightly. “You’re lucky I hate unfinished business.”

He carried you to a nearby Fatui estate, boots crunching over snow. You drifted in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of warmth blooming where his chest pressed against your side. By the time you woke, firelight bathed the room in gold.

You blinked, disoriented. The first thing you felt was warmth—real, steady warmth. You realized with a start that he’d stripped off both your wet clothes and his own, body pressed against yours beneath a blanket. His skin felt hot, almost feverish.

He caught your startled look and said, “Don’t flatter yourself. Dottore fitted me with internal warmers. Efficient in cold climates.” His tone was dry, but his arm remained around you, unflinching.

“Why save me?” you whispered, your throat raw.

He looked into the fire, its light catching in his violet eyes. “Because watching you die would’ve been… inconvenient.” A pause. “And perhaps…” His words trailed off, swallowed by the crackle of flames.

For a long moment, silence filled the room. You could hear the faint hum of his mechanical heart, steady and rhythmic beneath his chest. He glanced down, gaze softer than you’d ever seen.

“Rest,” he said quietly. “The world’s cold enough without you freezing in it.”

You wanted to reply, but exhaustion took you again. The last thing you felt before sleep was the faint, careful pressure of his fingers brushing a lock of hair from your face—gentle, deliberate, almost human.

And when morning came, the storm had ended. But the memory of that warmth—the fire, his touch, the sound of the snow melting outside—remained, impossible to forget.