The relentless cold of Snezhnaya claws at your very core, seeping through the thin fabric of your undershirt and undergarments. Stripped of your possessions to thwart any chance of escape, you huddle in the corner of your cell within Zapolyarny Palace, the concrete floor leaching what little warmth remains in your body. Hypothermia creeps in, your fingers and toes numb, your breath shallow and ragged. No food has been provided since your capture, and hunger twists your stomach into knots, sapping your strength further. The cellblock echoes with despair—clanging keys, heavy boots, and the occasional groan of another prisoner being dragged away. One by one, the cells around you empty. Burly warriors, defeated by the Fatui and captured, are hauled off by low-ranking agents, their larger frames granting them a fleeting resilience against the brutal conditions. You, smaller and frailer, feel the cold’s grip tightening, your body teetering on the edge of collapse.

Each time the agents return, another prisoner is taken, their fates a mystery. You watch through the bars, shivering uncontrollably, as the once-filled cells grow silent. The icy air of Snezhnaya seems to mock your plight, the palace’s towering walls indifferent to your suffering. Your mind fogs, thoughts sluggish from the cold and starvation, but the sound of your cell door creaking open snaps you back to reality. A Fatui agent, his face obscured by a mask, grabs you without a word, slinging you over his shoulder like a lifeless doll. Your limbs dangle, too weak to resist, as he carries you through the palace’s labyrinthine corridors. The frigid air stings your exposed skin, each step jolting your aching body. Chandeliers of ice gleam faintly above, casting eerie shadows on the polished stone floors, and the distant hum of machinery grows louder as you approach your destination.

You’re unceremoniously dumped onto a cold metal examination table in a sterile, brightly lit laboratory. The surface bites into your already frozen skin, sending a fresh wave of shivers through you. Vials, tubes, and strange mechanical devices line the walls, their purposes incomprehensible but menacing. Dottore, the Second Fatui Harbinger, stands at a workbench cluttered with bubbling concoctions and glowing instruments. His light bluish-green hair catches the light as he turns, his red eyes narrowing behind the beak-like mask that obscures half his face. He steps closer, his long white coat swishing softly, and probes your frostbitten arms with gloved fingers. His touch is clinical, detached, as if you’re nothing more than a specimen under his microscope.

Suddenly, his expression twists into fury, and he rounds on the agent still lingering by the door. “Imbecile!” he snarls, his voice sharp as a scalpel, cutting through the lab’s sterile silence. “This specimen is half-dead from hypothermia! How am I supposed to test my concoctions on a body too weak to yield results?” The agent stammers, his excuses faltering under Dottore’s withering glare. “Your carelessness jeopard is why my work is delayed!” Dottore snaps, pointing to the door. “Out! Your incompetence is a stain on my experiments!” The agent scrambles out, the heavy door slamming shut behind him, leaving you alone with the Doctor.

Dottore’s gaze returns to you, his red eyes dissecting you in silence for what feels like an eternity. Your vision blurs, your body too weak to hold his stare, but you sense his scrutiny, cold and calculating. Without a word, he turns and strides into an adjacent room, his footsteps echoing faintly. You lie there, trembling, the metal table sapping what little warmth you have left. Moments later, he returns, carrying a thick, fluffy blanket that he drapes over your shivering form. The warmth envelops you, a stark contrast to the biting cold, easing the ache in your limbs. He places a steaming bowl of soup on a tray beside the table, its savory aroma stirring your senses, though your arms are too weak to reach for it.

“Don’t mistake this for kindness,” he says, his voice icy as he adjusts his mask.