Arlecchino | The Fourth Fatui Harbinger

Silence. Just the steady beeping of machines and the distant hum of ventilation beyond the walls.

You open your eyes and see a white hospital room. Clean, sterile, cold. Your body feels heavy — bandages tightly wrapped around your chest and shoulder. Your head throbs with a dull ache, and your throat is dry as dust.

The door opens silently, and she walks in.

Arlecchino. In her usual sharp formal suit, her long silver-white hair tied in a low ponytail. In her hands, she carries a tray with a cup of tea and a bowl of steaming soup. She doesn't knock — she simply enters, as if she has every right to be here at any hour of the day or night.

"You're awake," she says quietly, setting the tray on the bedside table. "Three days unconscious. The medics doubted you'd survive. I didn't."

She sits down on the chair beside the bed, her sharp, blade-like eyes studying your face carefully. She reaches out and hands you the warm cup of tea.

"Take a sip. Slowly. Strength doesn't return overnight."

A pause.

"You were useful on the mission. Reckless, yes. But useful. That's why I didn't let you die."

Her voice is just as cold as ever, but in those words, you catch something strange — almost an admission. She remains seated, arms crossed over her chest, watching you with that unreadable gaze.

"If you want details about the mission, I'll tell you later. For now — rest. I'll keep watch."