Chapter Text
The wind over Irminsul was wrong that day—too still, too heavy, like the world itself was holding its breath.
Flames licked at the roots of something ancient and impossible, casting pale gold light across fractured bark and drifting ash that wasn’t quite ash. Reality itself felt thin here, like it could tear if someone spoke too loudly.
Pantalone stood with his coat unmoving behind him, as if even the air refused to touch him. His expression was composed in the way only practiced ruin could be—perfectly controlled, perfectly late.
Dottore was closer to the fire.
Or Zandik was.
It was getting harder to tell where one ended and the other began, Despite the fact pantalone has seen it with his own eyes.
“Maybe in another life?” Pantalone said softly, almost like a suggestion he didn’t expect the universe to approve.
A pause.
Then Dottore’s voice—quieter than it ever had the right to be.
“By your side, Feofan…”
The words were light, it almost felt like it wasn't spoken by the omega, but rather zandik.
Something in Pantalone’s expression shifted, barely. Not a crack. Not yet. More like a memory pressing against glass from the other side.
He let out a low, almost soundless chuckle. The last one he would allow himself.
“What should I call you?” he asked, voice steady by force alone. “Dottore… or would you prefer Zandik?”
Dottore turned slightly, just enough for the firelight to catch the edge of his face. Not the monster. Not the Harbinger. Just a man shaped by too many impossible choices.
“…Suit yourself,” he murmured.
A pause.
“Goodbye, Feofan. This time that's what it truly is."
The air folded inward.
Smoke rose- precise, like it had been engineered to erase presence rather than mark it. Dottore didn’t fall. Didn’t falter. He simply unraveled into it, piece by piece, until even the idea of him stopped holding shape in front of Irminsul’s burning light.
And then he was gone.
Pantalone remained still.
For a moment, he didn’t move at all, no, not even to breathe, not even to acknowledge the absence where something had just been.
Then, quietly, like speaking into a room that would never answer again:
“I know. Goodbye, Zandik.”
He turned away before the last of it could move away with the wind and reflect in his eyes.
Not because he didn’t want to see the fire.
But maybe because he didn't wish to see the last of his contract partner away away with the dust.
~~ ???? Years later
2026 was a mess for him.
Akadimiya was being a load of hell, classes from 7 to 4.
And his lab membership was to expire soon, he didn't know where would he get the money from.
His uniform old, his shoes worn out, but not as worn out as him.
Just to pay the fees of the akadimiya, he worked at a cafe 4:30 to 7 pm.
And then as much as he hated it, he worked at a bar from 7:30 to 11:30 pm, they paid good although he hated dealing with freaks. Last time he nearly got fired for violation.
Gods, he heard a voice calling out for him from the counter.
He didn't mind it, surely the primary barista will look to it. He was the substitute one, after all.
But when .. a hand caught his wrist,
Zandik didn’t react immediately.
Not because he didn’t notice—he did. He always noticed too much. It was a habit born from needing to survive people before they decided whether he was worth tolerating.
But his body was tired in that deep, bone-level way that made even reflexes feel slightly delayed. Twelve-hour days did that. Three jobs did that. Being seventeen and already exhausted by life did that.
Still, when the man’s fingers closed around his wrist—warm, firm, controlled—Zandik’s gaze snapped down.
“…Sir,” he said flatly, voice careful. Measured. Practiced obedience layered over old irritation he was learning to bury.
The man didn’t tighten his grip. Didn’t hurt him. If anything, it was almost… absent-minded. Like he had reached out before deciding whether he had the right to.
That was what made it worse.
Zandik looked up.
And paused.
The man was exactly as he had registered him briefly when he had entered—tall, composed, expensive in a way that didn’t scream for attention but simply assumed it would be given. Black hair falling neatly, glasses catching the low bar light in a soft, calculated reflection. Purple eyes half-lidded, as if the world was something mildly interesting but ultimately predictable.
A businessman. A dangerous kind, Zandik decided instantly. The kind that smiled while rearranging entire systems.
The kind he avoided.
The man’s smile didn’t fade.
Instead, it deepened slightly, like something private had just been confirmed.
“Black coffee,” he said smoothly, voice low and steady. “No sugar.”
“Yes,” Zandik replied automatically. “That is your order.”
A pause.
Zandik subtly tried to pull his wrist back.
The grip didn’t stop him, but it didn’t let go either.
That was… deliberate.
“I’m working,” Zandik added, sharper now. A warning wrapped in professionalism. “If you have an issue with service—”
“I don’t,” the man interrupted gently.
Too gently.
That was worse too.
His thumb shifted slightly over Zandik’s pulse point—not pressing, not restraining, just feeling. Like he was confirming something invisible beneath skin and exhaustion.
Then, almost casually:
“You’re shaking.”
Zandik went still.
“I’m not.”
A quiet exhale that might have been amusement.
“You are,” the man said. “Very slightly. Fatigue response. Overextended adrenal strain. Likely underfed.”
Zandik’s expression hardened.
“…Are you here to drink coffee or diagnose me?”
That earned him a pause.
A real one.
The man tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question with genuine curiosity.
Then he smiled again.
“Both,” he said simply.
Zandik yanked his wrist back harder this time.
This time, the man let go.
Too easily.
Like he had only been waiting for that exact reaction.
Zandik immediately stepped back behind the counter, putting the machine between them like it could function as a barrier against whatever this was.
“Your coffee,” he said curtly, sliding the cup forward with precision that bordered on aggression.
The man accepted it without breaking eye contact.
Didn’t drink it.
Just held it.
Watching him.
Zandik turned away first. That was intentional. That was survival instinct.
He started wiping the counter even though it was already clean.
“…You should leave if you’re finished,” he added.
“I am not finished,” the man replied.
That made Zandik pause again, just for a fraction.
Behind him, he heard the faint sound of ceramic being set down.
Careful. Controlled.
“I don’t believe I’ve introduced myself,” the man continued.
Zandik didn’t turn.
“I don’t need it.”
A soft hum, almost approving.
“That’s unfortunate,” the man said.
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“It would have made this easier for you.”
That line landed wrong. Not threatening. Not flirtatious.
Familiar.
Zandik finally looked back.
The man had removed his glasses now, resting them beside the untouched coffee. Without them, his gaze felt sharper. Less filtered. More direct.
“Easier?” Zandik repeated.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
Then the man’s smile shifted—not wider, not warmer. Just… different. Like a memory trying to surface through the wrong face.
“My name is Pantalone.”
The name meant nothing.
And everything.
Zandik frowned slightly. “I don’t care.”
A quiet breath. Almost like laughter that didn’t fully arrive.
“I didn’t expect you to,” Pantalone said.
Then, after a beat:
“But you will.”
Zandik felt irritation spike.
“I have work,” he said coldly. “Please don’t come back here unless you intend to order properly.”
“I did order properly,” Pantalone replied.
A pause.
Then, softer—so soft it barely fit in the noise of the bar:
“I came to see if you were real.”
That made Zandik stop completely.
The air between them shifted in a way he couldn’t explain. Like something vast had briefly pressed its weight against the room and then withdrawn.
Zandik narrowed his eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Pantalone didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, his gaze moved—not over Zandik’s face, not his hands, but something deeper. Something like recognition trying to survive logic.
Then, calmly:
“Nothing,” he said.
A lie.
Zandik knew lies. He was fluent in them.
But this one didn’t feel like deception.
It felt like restraint.
Pantalone reached for the untouched coffee again, finally taking a slow sip.
Black. No sugar.
Exactly as ordered.
“…You make it correctly,” he said after a moment.
“That’s my job.”
“Yes,” Pantalone agreed. “It appears you take your jobs very seriously.”
Zandik didn’t respond.
He should have moved on. Served the next customer. Forgotten the interaction like he forgot most things that didn’t involve rent or survival.
But something about the man’s presence didn’t leave.
It stayed.
Like a thought you couldn’t finish.
Pantalone set the cup down again.
This time, he stood.
And for the first time, Zandik noticed how controlled his movements were. Not just rich. Not just refined. Trained. Like someone who had once learned how to exist carefully in a world that punished hesitation.
He adjusted his cufflinks.
Then looked at Zandik one last time.
“Try to sleep,” he said casually.
Zandik’s jaw tightened. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
A pause.
Then, almost imperceptibly:
“I’m not,” Pantalone replied.
And for a second—just a second, something in his voice faltered. Not emotion. Not softness.
Recognition.
Then it was gone again.
He turned toward the exit.
Before leaving, he paused at the door.
Not looking back this time.
“…Goodnight,” he said.
And left.
The bell above the door chimed softly behind him.
Zandik stood still behind the counter.
The coffee remained untouched.
And for reasons he could not explain—and would not allow himself to explore—his wrist still felt warm where it had been held.