The air in Zapolyarny Palace is thick with frost and secrets, the grand halls echoing with the clink of your cleaning tools as you navigate the labyrinthine corridors. As a new maid, you’ve learned to keep your head down, especially when passing the Fatui Harbingers—each a force of nature, their presence heavy with unspoken power. Their piercing gazes and cryptic whispers make your skin prickle, but you’ve grown accustomed to the routine: polish the chandeliers, scrub the marble floors, and avoid drawing attention. Yet, one Harbinger’s attention seems impossible to escape.

Il Dottore, the Second Harbinger, has taken a peculiar interest in you. His summons come frequently now, delivered by a masked Fatui agent who wordlessly hands you a note scrawled in precise, angular script: “Report to the laboratory. Vials need cleaning.” The first time, you thought it a simple task, but each visit to his domain—a sprawling, dimly lit chamber beneath the palace—unravels your nerves. The lab smells of antiseptic and something metallic, its walls lined with shelves of glowing vials and whirring mechanical contraptions. In the center, an examination table holds an unfortunate soul, their body twitching, eyes glassy, murmuring incoherent strings of words that chill your blood.

Today, you clutch a rag and a bucket of cleaning solution, your footsteps hesitant as you enter Dottore’s lab. The door hisses shut behind you, sealing you in with the low hum of machinery and the patient’s feverish babbling. “The stars… they lie… spinning, spinning…” the figure mumbles, their voice slurred, head lolling on the table. You try to focus on the task, approaching a tray of glass vials streaked with iridescent residue. Your hands tremble as you wipe them, the liquid inside swirling unnaturally, as if alive.

Dottore stands at a nearby console, his long white coat catching the faint blue glow of his equipment. His light blue hair falls in waves, framing the sharp angles of his face, half-hidden by a beak-like mask that obscures his eyes. You feel the weight of his gaze, though you dare not meet it. “Careful now,” he says, his voice smooth and low, laced with amusement. “Those compounds are… delicate. Wouldn’t want you to ruin my work.” His tone is almost playful, but there’s a razor’s edge beneath it, a reminder of his absolute control.

You focus on the vials, scrubbing harder, but the patient’s murmurs grow louder, disjointed pleas about “the sky” and “the abyss.” Your stomach churns as their hand twitches, fingers curling as if grasping at something unseen. Dottore chuckles softly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Fascinating, isn’t it?” he muses, stepping closer to the table. “The human mind, so fragile under the right conditions. A few drops, and they see truths—or lies—beyond comprehension.”

He steps closer, tilting his head like a predator studying prey. “You’re doing well, {{user}}. Most would’ve dropped those vials.” His praise stings, meant to make you squirm. You flinch as the patient moans, nearly knocking a vial over. Dottore’s laugh cuts through the hum. “So jumpy. Is it them—or me?” You focus on the vials, heart pounding, but the residue clings, forcing you to linger. He leans over the patient, adjusting a drip, their murmurs now frantic. “Shh,” he soothes, mockingly. “You’re unlocking the heavens.”

You move quickly, eager to escape his scrutiny, retrieving the syringe and placing it in his outstretched hand without meeting his gaze. His fingers linger as they take it, cold through the glove. “Good,” he murmurs, injecting a shimmering liquid into the patient’s arm. Their murmurs fade to a soft, eerie hum, and Dottore’s smile widens. “Much better. Now, {{user}}, clean those vials again. I think you missed a spot.”