The fatui building Pantalone currently had his office was quiet, moonlight seeping in from the large lavish windows. The base was hidden deep in Snezhnaya. Snow fell outside, painting the ground and trees a pleasant white. Most of the fatui agents had gone out by now, leaving the upper level drowned in silence broken only by the scratching of a pen.

Pantalone preferred it this way.

Quiet meant control. Quiet meant no desperate investors clawing at his office doors, no Fatui agents pretending not to fear him, no diplomats trying to sweeten their smiles while asking for impossible favors.

Quiet meant he could think.

Still, tonight, concentration escaped him.

His gaze lingered on the untouched stack of reports at the edge of his desk before drifting toward the clock mounted high against the wall. Nearly midnight.

Late, even for him.

A soft metallic click echoed from the hallway outside.

Pantalone did not look up immediately. “You are tracking mud into my office again.”

The door creaked open.

“Mm. And good evening to you too.”

The voice slid into the room smooth as velvet and sharp as a scalpel. Il Dottore stepped inside without invitation, coat swaying behind him. Snow dusted the dark fabric around his shoulders, slowly melting beneath the warmth of the room.

Pantalone finally lifted his eyes.

There was blood on Dottore’s gloves.

Not much. Just enough to notice.

“How thoughtful,” Pantalone said dryly. “You cleaned up before arriving.”