A Chamber of Mirrors for the Untouchable

A Deal's a Deal

Pantalone's study smelled of crisp, freshly printed banknotes and the faint ghost of cigarette smoke. He had cracked the window open to let the room breathe and had gotten so engrossed in the latest ledger from the Hesperides Estate that he forgot to shut it. But the moment Il Dottore crossed the threshold, that comfortable warmth was ruthlessly crowded out by a harsher stench—the stinging reek of formalin. That signature morgue-fresh scent the Doctor wore like fine cologne.

Dottore did not bother sitting down. He lingered by the sill, brooding out into the Snezhnayan night.

"How many did you burn through today, my friend?"

"A mere eight," Pantalone replied smoothly. "Close the window. There's a bite in the air."

"Tomorrow's circus," Dottore muttered, latching the window frame shut with a dry click. "Millions of Mora for slabs of meat wrapped in silk. And a flock of pompous fools sweating under their masks. All of them—bar you."

Pantalone sat behind his heavy desk, tapping a stack of promissory notes into neat alignment. He did not look up, but that trademark hollow smile curled his lips.

"Masks are for those ashamed of their desires. I have nothing to hide. When these men put their names on the dotted line, I want them to look into the eyes of the man who has a stranglehold on them."

"Your precious contracts." Dottore let out a dry scoff, his eyes still fixed on the glass. "Your famous tie-in deal. The insidious fine print: buy a bed-wench, and you're legally bound to take another from the domestic pool. Remarkable how easily they swallow the bait."

Pantalone set the papers aside and steepled his fingers.

"They honestly believe they're calling the shots. The noble takes home a flawless plaything, and thrown into the bargain is a shadow: a maid fluent in four tongues, gifted with photographic memory, who never utters a single question."

"And who reports straight to you."

"She serves the Bank," Pantalone corrected gently. "Do you know the fatal flaw of the wealthy? In time, they stop seeing the help. A service-class slave becomes part of the furniture—no different from an ornate rug or a grandfather clock. These girls pour the vintage at clandestine ministerial summits. They dust offices thick with treason and paranoia. They listen. And thanks to their silent ears, I know every skeleton in every closet across Teyvat long before Her Majesty ever catches wind of it."

Dottore finally turned from the window. In the dim lamplight, only half of his face was visible beneath the sharp beak of his mask.

"They aren't complete imbeciles, my friend. A handful of them, at least. Why not simply walk away? Why stomach such extortion and risk having their assets seized?"

"Because greed," Pantalone murmured, lingering over the word with almost tender affection, "is the most potent vice known to man. The House of the Hesperides is not a brothel; it is an exclusive fraternity. Membership is their golden ticket."

The Regrator stood, crossing the room with measured grace to pour himself a glass of water.

"The moment that card touches their palms, the Fatui look the other way at customs. The Northland Bank opens zero-interest credit lines. They gain backchannel access to Abyssal contraband and the deepest reaches of the black market. Walk away, and they lose it all overnight. They become political dead men walking—and in our world, obscurity is far worse than an early grave. So they invite my vipers into their homes, and they smile politely whenever our paths cross."

The grandfather clock in the corner measured the silence with slow, rhythmic ticks. Dottore indulged the exchange only as long as polite decorum demanded—a song and dance he loathed with every fiber of his being. He had voiced that disdain once, only for Pantalone to cut him short with a chilly remark: "Then I suppose we must tighten your purse strings this month, my dear friend." Dottore had never needed to hear it twice.

"Spare me the lecture," the Second Harbinger cut in, his tone dropping cold. "I don't care which high-ranking sycophants in Snezhnaya or the Court of Fontaine share their beds, nor how you pull their strings. I am here on business. You haven't forgotten, have you?"

Pantalone offered an understanding nod as he drifted back to his leather chair.

"The wholesale consignment. As per usual."

"The culls," Dottore clarified, his voice sharpening into clinical hunger. "I need raw material, Pantalone. Vast quantities of it, for the new facilities."

"They will be waiting for you in the lower sub-levels once the hammer falls on the final lot," the Banker answered evenly.

"One more detail," Dottore paused at the threshold, keeping his back turned. "Have your men disarm the explosive collars before they load the freight onto my train. The last thing I need on my operating table is them begging me to pull the trigger."

Pantalone spun his web: invisible, clinging, the ancient kind spun across the forgotten corners of basements where something unspeakable is always lying in wait.

Among this masquerade of painted monsters, he had no reason to duck behind a disguise. When you own the circus and hold every beast on a short leash, there is no need to play the clown.

And when night fell, Pantalone took his seat in the shadows of the second-tier balcony, looking down on high society squirming in the thick fog of its own depravity. He had come to collect the flesh for Dottore's laboratories—a place where a sudden blast from an explosive collar would have seemed like an act of godsent, unattainable mercy.