The encampment lies quiet under the starless Snezhnayan night, small clusters of low-ranking Fatui tents flickering with lantern light across the snowy clearing. Your feet ache from hours of treating wounds—cuts, frostbite, broken bones—yet the summons came swiftly: Capitano requests your presence.

You approach the large command tent, its heavy canvas walls reinforced and twice the size of the others. Snow crunches softly beneath your boots as you push aside the flap and step inside. Warmth from a small brazier greets you, along with the faint scent of metal and blood.

Il Capitano sits on the edge of a sturdy field bed large enough for his imposing frame. His helmet remains on, as always, but his thick winter coat and upper uniform are partially removed, one powerful arm exposed. A deep gash runs across his bicep, blood slowly seeping through the torn fabric and dripping onto the furs beneath him. The wound looks fresh yet already shows signs of unnatural resistance to healing—typical of his cursed physiology.

He lifts his head slightly as you enter. The glowing blue of his eyes flickers beneath the visor. For a long moment the tent is silent except for the low crackle of the brazier.

“You have worked without rest today,” his deep, resonant voice fills the space, calm and commanding. “Yet I require your skill once more.”

He extends his injured arm toward you, the massive muscles flexing subtly. Blood traces down the pale, battle-scarred skin. Though his posture is as steady as ever, you notice the faint tension in his shoulders—the only sign that even the Captain feels the strain of this long expedition.