[Sharp, talon-like fingers vice around his neck and jolting his spine and his throat with a gasp. Tartaglia's grip is iron digging into his skin as much as the cold edge of his mask, but his breath the heat that molds it against his ear to molten his blood into a simmer. Tartaglia commands something out of him and he frowns even if he does close his eyes.
To leave. To never return.
Zhongli's breath catches, his body instinctively reacting not to the threat, but to the warning. Anger at being manhandled, confusion at the unexpected warning, and a deep-seated curiosity about Tartaglia's motives. He tries to suppress the mixture of admiration and frustration from his face, struggling to maintain his composure.
The grip loosens, and Zhongli's breath hitches as Tartaglia steps back. He stares at the Harbinger, his mind racing. He had not expected this. A confrontation, yes. A battle, even. But this strange blend of threat and concern leaves him reeling.
For a moment, the mask of the Harbinger slips, revealing a glimpse of the man beneath—the one who isn't entirely lost to the bloodlust and chaos.
The idea of walking away, of leaving this all behind, is tempting. He has been trying to retire, to distance himself from the world of Liyue's underworld. The responsibility weighs heavy on him, the constant pull of duty, the inescapable gravity of the syndicate's affairs. He lives near those he considers dear, and finds himself unable to not heed their call should they need him.
Zhongli has tried to step back, to leave the organization in the capable hands of young, promising leaders. Yet, every time he attempts to distance himself, something pulls him back in.
So, maybe...]
I— [Zhongli's voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. He swallows hard, trying to steady his breathing, to calm the turmoil within. With a final heave of his chest, Zhongli forces himself to nod, the motion slow and deliberate.
He casts one last look at Tartaglia, his eyes meeting the Harbinger's with a mix of gratitude and confusion. Then, he turns and heads towards the exit, his steps cautious on the ice, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.
Just as he reaches the door, his foot slips once more on the ice. The irony is not lost on him, a wry smile tugging at his lips even as he catches himself. The weight of Tartaglia's gaze is still heavy on his back even if he's no longer behind him. A few corridors in—empty, somehow—and he pushes the door open and steps out into the night, his mind replaying the events, the unexpected mercy, and the feeling of Tartaglia's grip on his neck.
As he leaves, the cold night air hits him, a stark contrast to the heat of the kitchen. He takes a deep breath, the fresh air grounding him. He knows he needs to move, to get as far away from the chaos as possible—
—and to the safehouse. He cannot afford to go home. Tomorrow, if the leaders survived, he'll be notified.]
no subject
To leave. To never return.
Zhongli's breath catches, his body instinctively reacting not to the threat, but to the warning. Anger at being manhandled, confusion at the unexpected warning, and a deep-seated curiosity about Tartaglia's motives. He tries to suppress the mixture of admiration and frustration from his face, struggling to maintain his composure.
The grip loosens, and Zhongli's breath hitches as Tartaglia steps back. He stares at the Harbinger, his mind racing. He had not expected this. A confrontation, yes. A battle, even. But this strange blend of threat and concern leaves him reeling.
For a moment, the mask of the Harbinger slips, revealing a glimpse of the man beneath—the one who isn't entirely lost to the bloodlust and chaos.
The idea of walking away, of leaving this all behind, is tempting. He has been trying to retire, to distance himself from the world of Liyue's underworld. The responsibility weighs heavy on him, the constant pull of duty, the inescapable gravity of the syndicate's affairs. He lives near those he considers dear, and finds himself unable to not heed their call should they need him.
Zhongli has tried to step back, to leave the organization in the capable hands of young, promising leaders. Yet, every time he attempts to distance himself, something pulls him back in.
So, maybe...]
I— [Zhongli's voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. He swallows hard, trying to steady his breathing, to calm the turmoil within. With a final heave of his chest, Zhongli forces himself to nod, the motion slow and deliberate.
He casts one last look at Tartaglia, his eyes meeting the Harbinger's with a mix of gratitude and confusion. Then, he turns and heads towards the exit, his steps cautious on the ice, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.
Just as he reaches the door, his foot slips once more on the ice. The irony is not lost on him, a wry smile tugging at his lips even as he catches himself. The weight of Tartaglia's gaze is still heavy on his back even if he's no longer behind him. A few corridors in—empty, somehow—and he pushes the door open and steps out into the night, his mind replaying the events, the unexpected mercy, and the feeling of Tartaglia's grip on his neck.
As he leaves, the cold night air hits him, a stark contrast to the heat of the kitchen. He takes a deep breath, the fresh air grounding him. He knows he needs to move, to get as far away from the chaos as possible—
—and to the safehouse. He cannot afford to go home. Tomorrow, if the leaders survived, he'll be notified.]