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It had always been like this. Ugly, strange, abnormal. That was him. His entire existence had been summarized by those humiliating words from the people around him. They had always said these things to his face. They pointed accusatory and mocking fingers at him, whispering unspeakable things into each other’s ears. The stares that followed him everywhere never left him alone. Every step he took, every breath he drew, seemed pathetic. Everything he touched seemed to spread a deadly disease. His eyes were a gift from the devil. The redness in them was the fire of the devil’s hell, the blood of the faithful.
The biological mother who gave birth to him had long given up. The poor woman had even called a priest to expel the sinner inside him… but it was in vain. He was still himself. His mother never stroked his head, never ran her hands affectionately through his turquoise hair. She didn’t even pity him. Even as a baby, she hesitated to give him milk. She gave him nothing.
He was alone.
He was no one’s child. He belonged to no one. He was a living shadow. People were experts at either ignoring him or turning him into a pitiful circus animal. All because he asked questions that shouldn’t be asked. Because he thought and questioned more than others. Because he followed a different path.
But as you might guess, this wasn’t entirely a bad thing. He didn’t stop because of how they treated him. His selfishness and hunger for knowledge grew stronger every day. Every night when he lay in bed, more questions, unstoppable thoughts, and theories flooded his mind. The information in the books in the library was always insufficient; there was no clarity. He burned with the desire to break, understand, and… destroy everything he saw. It had become an addiction. A dependency that rotted his lungs from within like cigarettes and drove him mad like gambling. He never stopped. He couldn’t stop. There was still so much to learn. He was climbing the steps of an endless staircase.
But time was never enough. It couldn’t be. A weak human body couldn’t endure this. He knew that; death would one day knock on his door. So as a solution, he did things he shouldn’t have. He had to. And it repeated. So many times that it had become normal for him, as if it were no longer a sin. Now there were hundreds, perhaps thousands of him with the same face and the same body. He had lost count. But every drop of blood spilled, every tear shed, every pain endured—it was all for an absolute and sacred purpose.
He wanted to prove his place in this world. But don’t misunderstand; this had nothing to do with the treatment he had received in the past. What those lowly, ignorant people thought or said about him was meaningless. Most of them had already died long ago. He, on the contrary, was now far superior to them. He knew more, he was learning more.
And as he learned, he understood the truths. How pathetic and powerless humanity was. They offered their souls and everything they had to their gods on a silver platter without hesitation. For what? For heaven? Or because of their desire to be ruled? Did they need a strong, wise figure to lean on? But how? How could you trust a being you couldn’t see with your eyes or touch with your hands? It was a chaotic uncertainty whether they would betray you or not. Their gods had emotions, and emotions were selfish and vile. Didn’t they know that?
Or perhaps… this was something he would never be able to learn. For centuries, he had spent his life researching, observing, and experimenting. There was nothing he couldn’t understand. He was sure there were no question marks left in his mind. Yet this… lingered in the back of his mind. It was a humiliating dilemma. He thought people were pathetic. Effortless beings. But the one question he couldn’t solve was them. Humans. He couldn’t solve humans.
Why do people cry? Why do they worship? What does it feel like to be human? What goes on inside their small brains? These were among the things he had always wondered. He had never been human; as his mother said, he was a devil. How could a devil understand a human? It went against the rules of the above.
Even now, when he looked into a person’s face, he couldn’t help but try to solve them. The sparkle in their eyes was a complex puzzle. Their movements were as uncertain as electrons orbiting an atom. They were always spinning in circles. Yet they didn’t seem to complain about it. Were they very stupid, or very smart?
“You look like you’ve been swept away in the river of thoughts again, Doctor,” said the voice behind him—Regrator, staring sharply at his back.
The Doctor skillfully ignored the gaze thrown at him, as if it were a habit. He didn’t deign to answer. Regrator spoke again:
“Ah, my mistake. You’re always swept away in the river of thoughts, aren’t you? You think you control that river. But in reality…” Regrator smiled faintly, resting his cheek on a gloved hand made of crocodile skin. The cold metal ring on his thumb pressed against his cheek. “It’s controlling you, isn’t it?”
A wide grin appeared on Dottore’s dry lips. The comment struck him as ridiculously and inappropriately funny. “Bold words, my dear friend,” he chuckled lightly. “I’ve always loved this side of you. The way you act so openly toward me. (No matter how wrong it may be.) Everyone else always lies to me.” He said the last sentence with fake pout.
Pantalone shifted in his chair and couldn’t help but smile. “No wonder.” After saying that, he fell silent. It was so quiet that even a feather falling in the room would sound like a bomb exploding. “It’s surprising that you single me out like this. Do you really believe I don’t lie to you?” His voice sounded genuinely curious and interested.
The Doctor’s grin widened. His hand reached toward one of the dusty keys of the piano but didn’t press it. His touch remained light. “Of course. After all, you need me, don’t you? You need me to survive…” In the last sentence, the Doctor suddenly fell silent as if something had occurred to him. His grin slowly faded.Need me.Just like…
“You’re missing one truth, my dear partner,” Regrator said sharply, as if to remind him. “A partnership isn’t one-sided.”
The Doctor let out a meaningless, atmosphere-breaking laugh. The laughter echoed in the room for a while. “You’re right! Good point.” His hands began to move slowly and almost gracefully over the old keys. “You really aren’t helping at all,” he muttered, in complete contradiction to what he had just said.
“Don’t you like this side of me?”
“Sometimes.”
“You just said ‘I’ve always loved this side of you’—”
“Which piece would you like me to play?”
Pantalone sighed as he was interrupted. After centuries together, he had grown used to Dottore’s capricious behavior. “As if I have many options. You always play the same song.”
Dottore shrugged indifferently. “Because it’s the only piece I know. And you never seemed too bothered by it.”
“Let’s say I know how to make do with what I have.”
“I’ve never heard a worse lie in my life. You’re one of the greediest people I know.”
Regrator chose not to respond. The Doctor, as he had done countless times before, slowly and almost caressingly placed his fingers on the keys. The first notes poured out heavy and elegant. It was as if time had stopped; with every press, the piano produced a soft, velvety sound as if taking a deep breath.
The intro of the song was filled with an indescribable calm and peace. The notes danced gently in the air, wrapping the dim atmosphere of the room in a sweet melancholy. It was like an old love song.
Pantalone could never stop being surprised every time. Looking at this scene now, Dottore was just a silhouette. As if he had never stained his hands with blood, never disregarded people’s lives, never been consumed by his thirst for knowledge. He was just a small, naive being breathing and trying to exist in this cruel world. Just a man playing the piano without getting bored.
But that was only the reflection in a mirror. On the other side of the mirror were Dottore’s undeniable sins. Dottore was far from being a naive being. Sometimes it took Pantalone longer to remember this while looking at that silhouette. He sometimes… got carried away.
As the song approached the chorus, the tempo suddenly quickened. The notes rose with enthusiasm as if breaking free from their chains. Sudden drops, unexpected rises… The melody had transformed from a calm river into a stormy sea.
Even Pantalone, who had heard this song thousands of times, listened with the same curiosity and excitement as the first day. His fingers gripped the edge of the armchair tightly. He couldn’t take his eyes off Dottore and the piano for even a moment.
The Doctor’s hands no longer moved with their former nobility and control. His fingers roamed over the keys faster, wilder, more selfishly. With every press, the keys seemed to moan. It was as if he was punching someone in the face over and over. He was venting all his anger through those poor, worn-out piano keys. The old wood trembled and groaned in pain with every strike, the strings struggling to hold on.
Pantalone remembered very well the first time he heard Dottore play the piano. He had been surprised then, even a little uneasy.Why is he so angry? Who is he angry at? he had asked himself.
Now he knew everything.
Dottore wasn’t angry at anyone, and he had no regrets. He simply gave everything to this instrument that could silence his thoughts, even if only for a moment.
There was nothing wrong with that.
The song ended gently, in complete contrast to the speed of the chorus, just like the intro.
…
The cigarette dangling from the rich businessman’s lips slipped easily. Before Regrator could stop him, the turquoise-haired man dropped the cigarette to the floor and crushed it hard with his shoe.
Regrator wasn’t even looking at him. His head was still turned toward the snow-covered mountains ahead. Yet he couldn’t see that far. Even with his glasses, he could only see a few steps ahead. The Doctor knew this very well, because he personally took care of all of Pantalone’s health issues.
“I have two more packs of cigarettes with me.”
“You have no respect for my efforts, do you?”
The Doctor leaned against the balcony beside him. Imitating Pantalone, he too looked toward the mountains. He could see better than Pantalone, but he got bored after a few seconds. He wrinkled his face in disgust. What was the point of just staring at mountains? They were just pieces of rock formed by small stones coming together billions of years ago.
He hated things he didn’t know.
Pantalone glanced at him sideways. He saw the expression beneath the masked face. He didn’t look surprised. He simply continued to watch with an expressionless face. Normally there was always a small fake smile on his lips. Now that was gone too.
“You really are unique,” the black-haired man murmured. His voice was low and tired. The words hung heavily in the cold air of the balcony as soon as they left his lips. Then, as if nothing had happened, he turned forward again. His profile was a sharp shadow in the dim light.
The Doctor stood motionless for a while. The usual sarcastic or condescending response didn’t come this time. He remained silent. Maybe there was no point in answering anymore.
“Your mouth has finally shut,” Pantalone said in a hoarse voice. He pressed his lips tightly together. It looked like he still had a lot to say, but everything was stuck in his throat.
“I’ve already reached the end of the current, Regrator.” The Doctor looked at Pantalone. His eyes were cold and clear. “And unlike you, I’m not afraid to accept it. I’ve already died many times before. Dying one more time won’t be a problem.”
“But this time it will be the last.”
“Everyone has an end. I have no intention of continuing like this forever.”
Pantalone smiled faintly. He rested his chin on his hand; his fingers were thin and pale. “You won’t like the result.”
The Doctor paused for a moment and tilted his head slightly. Then that characteristic wide grin slowly formed on his pale face. “Maybe. Success was never a definite possibility anyway.” He paused. “What matters to me is not the end, but the experiment itself.”
“Nonsense,” Pantalone said flatly. “Complete nonsense.”
“Yes. It is.”
…
“Do you have any last words for me?”
“Where did you put the immortality drugs? I’ve been very forgetful lately.”
Dottore burst into a shrill, unsettling laugh. The sound echoed off the stone walls of the Fatui building. “In the usual place. Second drawer of my desk.”
“Thank you. That’s all.”
“That’s it?” The Doctor’s voice was mocking. As if he had been expecting more.
“Yes. What else could there be?” Pantalone replied with the same mocking tone.
There was so much he wanted to say to him.
But everything he would say would be too ridiculous. If he told him these things, he would most likely make fun of him. Maybe he would even be disgusted?
He said none of it.
He might regret it later, but he didn’t care.
…
“You honored me by coming this far,” said the Devil, with a faint smile on his lips. His eyes were fixed on the slowly burning branches of the enormous tree ahead. The flames crackled and rose, red-orange lights dancing across the dark sky.
Pantalone slowly opened his eyes. He looked at the scene before him: scorched earth, shadows trembling in the firelight, and that old burning tree… The image was inexplicably sad. Wasn’t it strange? He had known this would happen from the very beginning. He had been preparing for it for years. Yet now there was an unbearable weight in his throat. He couldn’t swallow. It was as if an invisible hand was squeezing his windpipe.
“I wanted to fulfill my duty as a respectable partner,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse.
“This wasn’t a duty,” the Devil replied, his voice strangely soft with relief. “It was your own choice.”
Pantalone didn’t take his eyes off him for even a moment. He didn’t even blink. As if the moment he did, Dottore would slip from his hands and turn to ash.
“You look like you’ve been swept away in the river of thoughts, Regrator,” said the Devil, with a mocking tone.
Pantalone chuckled softly. What did it matter anymore?
“Do you think so?” he said with a fake smile. His lips curved, but his eyes were still filled with pain. “Quite the opposite… I’ve finally found the answer I was looking for.”
“Oh? What is it?” Dottore asked, his curiosity shining with genuine interest.
“That you and I still have a shred of humanity left.”
Dottore paused for a moment, then let out a low, dry laugh. His laughter mixed with the wind and the crackling of the flames.
“I was never human to begin with,” he said. There was neither anger nor pity in his voice; only an old, dusty emptiness. “I never tasted the ignorant happiness of humanity, nor a mother’s affection.”
Pantalone looked at him more carefully. The red reflections of the fire danced on both their faces. His voice came out soft but firm:
“Is that what being human means, then, Zandik?”
Hearing the name Zandik, Dottore’s shoulders tensed slightly. That name was like a long-buried wound, unused for a very long time. He didn’t answer for a while.
“A person with no one cannot be human,” he finally whispered. His voice sounded truly tired and bare for the first time. “To be human, you must have the title of being someone’s child, someone’s friend, someone’s beloved. A person like me was never granted that title.”
“You already have a title.”
“What? What is it?”
“You are my partner.” Pantalone said this decisively. But as he spoke, his chest tightened. He hated feeling this way.
No power could change the fact that Dottore and Pantalone were partners. They were both alone. That’s why they had become each other’s someone. No matter how hard it was for them to say it out loud.
A genuine smile formed on Dottore’s face after a long time. It wasn’t one of his usual irritating grins. It was something different, something deeper.
“You’re right, Feofan.”
…
Ugly, strange, abnormal.
That was the summary of his existence.
To others.
Zandik, although he deeply doubted the ways of the gods, would quietly pray to the god of nature every night as a child before getting into bed. He would kneel at the edge of the bed, clasp his small hands together on his chest, and squeeze his eyes shut. He didn’t even know why he was praying or what he was wishing for. Maybe he just wanted an answer, a sign, or a hand that would hold him and keep him warm.
But he never received an answer.
He had bitterly understood at a very young age that the gods had turned their backs on him. He had been pushed out the door without even being given a chance to prove himself. The sky was silent. The forests did not whisper.
He couldn’t contain his anger. His chest burned, his small fists clenched. *Where did I go wrong?* he would ask himself in the darkness of the night.
Why was a god angry at a tiny child?
Or was he really a devil? Did the blood-red color bestowed upon his eyes signal that his fate was hell? Was he evil by nature? These questions gnawed at his thin body like worms.
What Zandik wanted was actually very simple: for someone to claim him. To belong to someone.
Now he was on the brink of death. His body was slowly growing cold, his breathing becoming sparse. He knew everything was coming to an end. He was going to the place he belonged, the dark place written in his fate since childhood.
Feofan’s last words to him were still ringing in his ears; like an old melody echoing in his brain.
Zandik was happy. He wasn’t sad. He had no regrets.
All his questions had finally been answered. He had understood what it meant to be human.
To be human is to need someone.
Zandik’s plan was to die together with Feofan. To party with him forever, to laugh, to argue, to tease each other… He wouldn’t be unhappy with that. To be closer to him, to feel the warmth of his skin, to intertwine with him… He wouldn’t be unhappy with those either.
But it didn’t happen.
He selfishly knew he would join him soon. Feofan had always been like that. He had always followed him. This time too, he would come after him.
Maybe this was better. This time they could stay by each other’s side forever.