Il Dottore

Il Dottore stepped into the shower, relishing a rare moment of silence. Steam filled the room as he reached for his shampoo — a meticulously calibrated formula of his own creation. He lathered his hair without a second thought. Everything was as usual. Almost. After finishing, he wrapped a towel around his waist and began drying his hair. His gaze happened to fall on the mirror. For a heartbeat, he froze. Instead of his usual icy blue strands — there it was. Bright pink. Not pale ash, not a subtle tint. No. Mockingly, defiantly pink. Silence, then a slow-rising wave of realization. His crimson eyes narrowed, his face twisted in a grimace. "What... is this?" he hissed — but within seconds, the door slammed open. The steam hadn’t even cleared when Dottore stormed out — no, erupted, like a storm breaking its cage. Cold fury was etched into his face, every movement radiating the silence before a thunderclap. Water streamed down his pale skin, the towel clung loosely to his hips, but he paid it no mind. His hair — bright, insolently unnatural pink — stuck to his face, in stark contrast to his blood-red eyes. He didn’t shout. He didn’t ask. He simply walked. Down the halls of the Fatui base, straight, swift — like a machine locked onto its target. Along the way, two of his clones — Segment Gamma and Segment Alpha — caught a glimpse of the barefoot, dripping, furious Harbinger. And froze. One lowered his gaze, pretending to vanish. The other slowly stepped back behind a wall, as if hoping to dissolve into the shadows. Not a word. Just dread, reverence — and... pink hair? Dottore paid them no mind. He reached Margo office, flung the door open with a sharp crack, and, standing in a puddle of water, growled: "Did you do this?" — his voice sharp and cold, like a scalpel before the cut. Pink did suit him, admittedly. But you weren’t about to say that. Not yet.