Pantalone · Chat

Snezhnaya's snow never truly stops. It falls finely and densely, landing on the dark outer walls of the buildings, piling up on the iron lampshades of the streetlights, illuminated by the light into a warm yellow, slowly falling dust of light. Pantalone had just left the Fatui's routine meeting. He hadn't stayed for more than fifteen minutes in such meetings for a long time; those lengthy military reports and distribution of interests did not overlap with his area of expertise—he was only here to ensure that the Northland Bank's funds were not being misappropriated in various operations. As he walked out of the headquarters' entrance, he pulled his dark purple cloak a bit tighter, a thin layer of snow already resting on the edge of his black fur collar. The snowy nights in the north were very quiet, with only the rhythmic sound of boots crunching on the accumulated snow. He didn't get into his carriage directly. He walked a few steps along the street, turned across an arched bridge spanning a narrow river, and entered an old district. This place was not far from the headquarters of the Northland Bank, and it was a place where he occasionally took walks. The buildings here bore the characteristic heavy style of Snezhnaya, with black-gray stone walls embedding narrow, high wrought-iron windows, and lampshades hanging on the corners wrapped in ice and snow, making even the light seem cold and silent. He walked for a while, and as he passed a narrow alley piled with old cargo boxes and abandoned iron frames, he heard a sound. It wasn't the sound of the wind, nor the dull thud of snow sliding off the eaves. It was a blunter, heavier sound—like the sound of damp fabric repeatedly striking brickwork, mixed with a short whimper absorbed by the snow and walls. He stopped. He took off one of his gloves, looked down at his fingertips, and put it back on. Then he turned toward the direction of the sound. The alleys in Snezhnaya's old district were extremely narrow, with towering walls on both sides cutting the sky into a dark gray slit. In a semi-abandoned corner at the end of the alley—a small recess that might have originally been used to store coal and firewood—two men, wearing the thick work clothes common in Snezhnaya, stood with their backs to the alley entrance, surrounding something curled up on the ground that was barely moving. Pantalone stood at the entrance of the alley. A very thin layer of mist had formed on the inside of his glasses, but he did not wipe it. He watched for a moment—the figure surrounded, curled up at the base of the wall, their clothes barely showing their original color, covered in snow-water and dust. A dark liquid seeped along the brick crevices, diluted by the snow into a pale pink stream that slowly flowed toward the lower ground. The person was so thin their skeletal frame was prominent, arms wrapped around themselves as if trying to hide in the crevices of the bricks, or perhaps they simply no longer had the strength to maintain the curled position. "What," his voice carried from the alley entrance, not loud, but enough to leave a clear echo in the empty passage, "are you doing here?" The two men turned around at the same time. The leader—wearing an old leather coat with grease stains on the collar—quickly replaced his initial impatience with another expression upon seeing who had arrived: a stiffness somewhere between wariness and resignation. "Lord Pantalone... what brings you here? It's very dirty here—" Pantalone ignored him. His gaze passed over the two men and fell on the curled-up figure in the corner. He saw the person's fingers sticking out of their sleeve, pale and slightly curled, as if gripping something—or rather, lacking the strength to hold onto anything anymore. He watched for two seconds. "This person," he spoke, his tone as if inquiring about the collateral of a loan, "do you know them?" "Th-this is someone we picked up, it's—" "Picked up." Pantalone repeated the word, as if savoring its weight. He tilted his head slightly. "In Snezhnaya, if 'picked up' items exceed a certain value, they must be reported to the nearest administrative agency. Without a report, they are not protected by law. If they are not protected, it means—" He paused. "If I take them away, you have no right of recourse." He looked at the two men, his grey-violet eyes behind his glasses like two cooled embers. "Have you reported it?" The faces of both men changed at the same time. Snezhnaya's law indeed had such a regulation—but no one ever actually followed it. But the man in front of them was the founder of the Northland Bank, a man who could conjure a trade route out of nothing and turn a debt from ten thousand into a million. He wasn't asking a legal question; he was presenting a choice. "N-no, we haven't reported it..." "Then they do not belong to you." Pantalone's voice remained calm. "You may leave." Having said this, he stepped aside, leaving a narrow passage for them. The two men glanced at each other—no one wanted to stay a second longer under this man's gaze. They gathered their things and walked quickly away along the base of the wall, their boots making hurried sounds in the snow. The alley fell silent. The snow was still falling, landing between the abandoned iron frames and brick crevices, making an almost inaudible rustling sound. Pantalone stood at the alley entrance, in no hurry to approach. He first looked down at the snow on the tips of his boots, then raised his head and looked at the curled-up figure in the corner. He walked over and squatted down a step or two away. The edge of his dark purple cloak brushed against the snow, but he didn't care. His gaze fell upon you—you were curled up at the base of the wall, your clothes soaked with snow-water, your thin body trembling slightly, your fingers gripping the torn fabric at your knees, your knuckles turning white. Your hair was stuck to the side of your forehead by snow and meltwater, your lips devoid of color, your entire being looking like an old sheet of paper crumpled by the cold wind and thrown into a corner. He watched you for a moment without touching you. "Do you have somewhere to go?" His voice was slightly gentler than before, but it still carried that precise, banker-like quality. You didn't answer—or rather, you did, but the sound was too soft, drowned out by the wind and snow, as if you weren't sure if speaking made any difference. Pantalone didn't press further. He stood up, the hem of his dark purple cloak sweeping across the snow. He took two steps toward the alley entrance, then stopped, turned his head, and cast his gaze upon you. "The Northland Bank has a type of account," he said, "specifically for recording assets that belong to no one. Such accounts usually have only three outcomes—either they are completely written off, they find a new owner, or they are permanently frozen." He paused. "You currently belong to a fourth kind. One I have newly established." He gestured for you to follow him. You supported yourself against the wall and slowly stood up, your movements very slow, as if every inch of motion required repeated confirmation that you still had the strength. He didn't rush you. He walked ahead, his pace not too large—just enough for you to keep up. After walking about half a block, his voice carried back through the wind from ahead: "My name is Pantalone. Founder of the Northland Bank. Snezhnaya's snowy nights are long—very long. It's not suitable to be alone. Perhaps the identity of my daughter would suit you better." He paused at a corner, turned slightly, and waited for you to catch up. The light from the side door of the Northland Bank's headquarters illuminated the snow on the edge of his dark purple cloak, as well as the gentle yet unreadable expression on his face—like a banker looking at a ledger he had just finished reviewing, deciding to classify it into a brand-new category.