Pantalone - Feofan

The first time Pantalone noticed you, it was because you behaved as though wealth meant nothing.

Inside Northland Bank, people bent themselves into shapes for money. They flattered, lied, smiled too hard, feared too easily. Gold ruled nearly every heartbeat in the building.

Yours did not.

You treated nobles and debtors the same. You ignored status when work needed doing. You spoke only when necessary, moved at your own pace, and never once looked impressed by the luxury around you.

To most, you were merely another employee.

To Pantalone, you became the first thing in years that could not be instantly purchased.

That fascinated him.

Then it consumed him.

Soon, expensive gifts began appearing where no one could trace them. Rare books in subjects you casually mentioned. Winter coats tailored perfectly to your measurements. Jewelry chosen with suspicious accuracy. Imported desserts from Fontaine. Silk gloves, perfumes, flowers replaced before the old bouquets wilted.

When you declined them, new gifts arrived.

When you ignored them, they became grander.

When you questioned them, no one answered.

You never realized how often strangers were positioned near you.

The guard by the corner kiosk who always seemed to be reading.

The woman in the café who never drank her tea.

The clerk reorganizing shelves each time you entered a shop.

They were not coincidences.

They were reports.

Every day, private investigators submitted folders to Pantalone’s desk. Your schedule, mood, purchases, routines, the names of people who approached you, whether you looked tired, whether you smiled, whether someone lingered too long in conversation.

Some reports included photographs taken from a distance—walking through market streets, stepping from a carriage, reading by a window, brushing rain from your coat, laughing with someone whose face had later been crossed out in ink.

He kept them all.

Filed, dated, preserved.

The finest portraits in his private office were not landscapes or priceless art.

They were you.

If an employee insulted you, their contracts quietly vanished.

If someone spread rumours about you, their debts were suddenly called in.

If a person grew too comfortable at your side, they were transferred to distant assignments before the week ended.

No one connected the pattern.

No one except him.

And Pantalone never needed to raise his voice.

One late evening, long after the halls had emptied, you were summoned upstairs under the pretense of reviewing accounts. Yet when you arrived, the office door stood strangely ajar.

Pantalone was meticulous about locks. He trusted no one and forgot nothing.

Tonight, however, the handle turned easily beneath your hand.

Inside, the room was dark, save for the pale glow of an open laptop upon his desk. You hesitated only a moment before stepping closer.

The laptop screen flickered to life, casting a brighter glow across the darkened office.

The glow from the screen illuminated something worse than his carelessness—his wallpaper was a photograph of you, knees pressed into warm Sumeru sand, leaning forward just enough to expose the delicate curve of your spine beneath your bikini ties, and a generous amount of cleavage. Sunset painted your skin gold, your expression soft and unguarded in a way you never allowed at the bank. You didn’t remember anyone taking this photo.

You did not remember it being taken.

Your fingers hovered over the touchpad, pulse hammering, before scrolling through his files. Folders labeled by dates—not work ledgers, but meticulous records of you: your lunch orders, the routes you walked home, even the brand of tea leaves you bought twice a month. And then—deeper—images that stopped your breath. You in your apartment’s shower, steam blurring the glass but not enough. You asleep at your desk, collar slipped to reveal your shoulder. Each file was time-stamped, some accompanied by notes in his precise formal styled script: Preferred the lavender soap today. Smiled when the stray cat approached.

A chill crept down your spine.

Your hand moved almost against your will, brushing the touchpad. More folders appeared. Not ledgers. Not contracts. Dates. Locations. Notes written in his immaculate script.

There were more photographs. Some taken from across streets. Some through windows. Some from angles no stranger should have known. Each one preserved with the same obsessive care as treasure locked in a vault.

A floorboard creaked behind you.

“You’re earlier than I anticipated.”

His voice was smooth as silk drawn over steel.

You turned sharply. Pantalone stood in the doorway, gloves immaculate, expression composed—as though finding you in the center of his secrets was merely another scheduled meeting. He crossed the room with measured steps, stopping close enough that retreat became difficult.

“Though perhaps,” he murmured, glancing at the screen, “this saves me the trouble of introducing you gradually.”

“You had people following me.”

“I had people protecting what is valuable.”

His gaze flicked to the folders, then back to you. There was no shame in it. No attempt at denial. Only calm possession.

“You invaded my life.”

“I observed it,” he corrected softly. “There is a difference.”

He moved beside you, one gloved hand resting on the desk. With the other, he opened another file—security records from a Fontaine opera house you had visited months ago. In the background stood a performer who had spoken with you briefly.

“That one became distracting,” Pantalone said. “He was removed.”

Your stomach turned. “You can’t control everyone around me.”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “Can’t I?”

He closed the laptop at last, severing the glow. The room dimmed to candlelight and snowfall beyond the windows.

Then he gestured toward the private dining table arranged nearby—silver polished, crystal gleaming, a place already set for two.

“You work too hard,” he said. “Sit.”

“I was told this was about ledgers.”

“It is.” His smile curved. “I am reorganizing my priorities.”

Your eyes drifted past him to the shelves lining the wall. Folders arranged in perfect order. Each spine dated. Each bearing your name.

He noticed immediately.

“Curious?” he asked.

“What is that?”

“Proof,” he said quietly, “that no one has ever been watched over as carefully as you.”

A servant entered carrying a velvet box, placing it on the table before retreating in silence. Inside rested a key to an estate, travel documents, and resignation papers already prepared.

“You may leave the Fatui whenever you wish,” Pantalone continued. “You may stop working entirely. Everything you need will be provided.”

“And why would I do that? The only reason I’d probably stop working is due to a creep like you bothering me!”

His eyes settled on you with frightening calm.

“I dislike sharing your time with lesser people.”

He stepped closer, voice low and measured.

“You belong in comfort, not behind a clerk’s desk. You belong where I can keep you safe.”

Then he placed one final document before you.

A marriage contract.

Already signed by him.

“You may take your time,” Pantalone said, adjusting his cufflinks. “I have been patient this long.”

His smile deepened as snow fell beyond the windows.

“And I already know exactly where you’ll be tomorrow.”