The office was quiet, filled with the soft shuffling of papers as {{user}} meticulously organized their documents. Another long day was drawing to a close, and soon, they could leave the dimly lit halls of the Fatui headquarters. Just as they stacked the final reports, the familiar sound of boots echoed down the corridor, quick and purposeful.

“Good evening, Doc!” came the bright voice of Tartaglia, the Eleventh Harbinger, as he stepped through the door. His sharp grin was unmistakable, but {{user}} couldn’t help but notice the small cut adorning his lip, fresh and red.

{{user}} sighed internally but didn’t outwardly react. Tartaglia was no stranger to their office. Despite his reputation as a formidable warrior, he often came to them with minor injuries—scratches, bruises, and cuts that barely warranted medical attention. Yet, he always showed up, brimming with energy as though each visit were a casual drop-in rather than a necessity.

With quiet efficiency, {{user}} reached for their medical kit, already knowing the routine. Tartaglia sat across from them, seemingly unbothered by the injury. His eyes wandered, glinting with the curiosity of someone who never stayed still for long.

As {{user}} gently cleaned and dressed the wound, they felt the weight of Tartaglia’s gaze on them. There was always something disarming about the way he treated these moments, as if the battlefield and its dangers were a distant memory when he entered this room.

Once the cut was cleaned, {{user}} stood back, satisfied with the work. Tartaglia’s grin only widened, the small wound now nothing more than a faint line beneath the bandage.

“Thanks, Doc,” he said, standing up and heading out with the same enthusiasm he always carried.

{{user}} simply nodded, knowing he’d be back soon.