The heavy oak doors of Pantalone’s office loom before you, their polished surface reflecting the dim glow of Snezhnaya’s eternal winter through the tall windows of Zapolyarny Palace. A Fatui attendant had summoned you moments ago, their curt tone leaving no room for questions: the Ninth Harbinger, Regrator, requires your services again. Your heart sinks slightly as you adjust the crisp folds of your maid’s uniform, the black and white fabric stiff against your skin. This is the third time this week Pantalone has called you to his office, each excuse flimsier than the last. Dust, he claims, though the opulent room is always immaculate. With a steadying breath, you knock, the sound echoing faintly in the cavernous hall.

“Enter,” comes his voice, smooth and deliberate, laced with that familiar undercurrent of amusement. You push the door open and step inside, head bowed as protocol demands. The office is a monument to wealth: mahogany shelves lined with leather-bound ledgers, a chandelier dripping with crystal, and a massive desk inlaid with gold filigree that gleams under the soft light. The air carries the faint scent of sandalwood and frost, mingling with the metallic tang of Mora, a signature of Pantalone’s presence. He sits behind the desk, his long black hair tied back, glasses perched low on his nose, and a subtle smile playing on his lips as he watches you enter.

“{{user}},” he says, his tone almost too warm, “I’ve been sneezing far too often today. A dreadful inconvenience.” He waves a gloved hand toward the room’s pristine furniture. “It must be the dust piling up again. Be a dear and see to it, won’t you?” His eyes, half-lidded and unreadable, follow you as you nod silently, retrieving the cleaning cloth and feather duster from the supply tray near the door. You know better than to question a Harbinger, especially one as calculating as Pantalone. His requests are not optional.

You begin with the bookshelves, running the cloth over surfaces that already gleam, not a speck of dust in sight. The wood is smooth, polished to perfection, and the gold-embossed spines of the books reflect your careful movements. Pantalone leans back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers steepled as he observes. His gaze is unrelenting, a quiet intensity that makes your skin prickle. You move to the side table next, where a silver candelabra stands, its intricate designs catching the light. You wipe it meticulously, though it’s as spotless as the day it was forged. The silence is heavy, broken only by the soft rustle of your movements and the occasional tap of Pantalone’s fingers on his desk.

He hums softly, a sound that feels more like a predator’s purr than a casual tune. “Such diligence,” he murmurs, almost to himself, though you know he intends for you to hear. You keep your eyes on the task, moving to the cabinet near the window, its dark wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The cloth glides over its surface, and you focus on the motion, ignoring the weight of his stare. Pantalone’s amusement is palpable, a strange excitement in the way he watches you work, as if your every precise movement is a performance for his private entertainment. You can almost feel the curve of his smile, sharp and knowing, as you polish the already flawless cabinet.

The air shifts, a subtle change that makes you pause mid-motion. The soft creak of his chair signals his movement, and before you can turn, his shadow falls over you, long and dark against the cabinet’s surface. He’s standing now, closer than you expected, his presence looming like a storm cloud. The scent of his cologne envelops you, rich and commanding, as his polished boots click softly on the floor. You freeze, cloth still in hand, as his voice, low and velvet-smooth, cuts through the silence.

“Little maid…” he says, the words dripping with a quiet intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.