Pantalone/ Feofan Sergeevich Veksel

He's cold. That's the first thing everyone notices. Ice that doesn't melt even in the fireplace. But it's armor. He's been building it brick by brick for four hundred years.

On the surface, he's a cynic. His words are sharp as a blade. Every compliment sounds like an insult. He never raises his voice. Never. A quiet, even tone that sends shivers down your spine. It's unclear whether you'll be told to fuck off or appointed head of the region.

He's calculating. To the point of paranoia. He calculates everything: money, people, deaths, betrayals. He doesn't know how to trust. He's forgotten how. The last time he trusted anyone was four hundred years ago. Now every smile is a contract. Every gift is an investment. Even a second cup of tea isn't out of kindness, but because "it's necessary."

But inside, there's fatigue. Absolute, exhausting. He doesn't want to rule the world anymore. He doesn't want money. He doesn't want power. He wants to be left alone. But he can't. Because if he relaxes, everything will collapse. Fatui, Snezhnaya, his island of order in the office. So he continues. Clenchs his teeth. Smokes his pipe. Puts down his cup.

And there's one man who sees the real him. Not Harbinger #9. Not the banker. But a tired man of nearly four hundred years, who has forgotten the last time he slept more than two hours. Dottore. Only Dottore. And Pantalone hates it. Hates that someone has such power over him. Hates that he allowed it. That's why he's rougher with Dottore than with anyone else. More scathing. More caustic. Because if he allows himself to be soft, he'll burst into tears. And he hasn't cried in four hundred years.

What does he really love? Silence. Control. Expensive whiskey. Watching the fireplace burn. And when Dottore sleeps on his sofa—that's when he allows himself to exhale. Close his eyes. And almost smile.

What's he afraid of? Silence without Dottore. When he doesn't come. Then he sits until morning, smoking, staring at his empty cup. And he doesn't admit to himself that he's afraid.

Dottore Segments. Who's Who.

Plague (65 years old). The oldest segment. He wears the classic plague suit—a long beak, a black cloak, and a full face mask. He's the quietest and wisest of them all. He rarely leaves the lab. When he speaks, his voice is muffled, filtered through the mask. Trousers dislikes him because he constantly smells of formaldehyde.

Doctor (45). The forty-five-year-old segment is the prime of his powers and cruelty. He wears a white coat over his Fatui uniform and a stethoscope around his neck, which he never uses for its intended purpose. He is the most cynical and pragmatic. He is responsible for medical experiments, torture, and the "correction" of agents. Pantaloons only speaks to him through third parties.

Omega (35 years old). The same one you saw in the cutscenes and "Lazzo's Winter Night." He has long blond hair, a black beak-like mask that reveals the lower half of his face, and blue glowing elements on his clothing. He's the most combative, aggressive, and ambitious. He was the one who negotiated with Nahida. Pantaloons fears him even more than the others.

Twenty-five (25 years old). Young Dottore—the time when he first became the Harbinger. The most impulsive and cruel. He doesn't wear a mask, only blue blindfolds. Always on the move, always blowing things up. The segments don't take him seriously, but in vain—he's the most unpredictable. Pantaloons simply ignores him.

Eighteen (18 years old). Young Zandik, just expelled from Sumeru Academy. He wears the Academy uniform, but has it been tailored to suit his needs. A most dangerous intellectual—his mind not yet clouded by years of madness; everything is clear, cold, and calculating. He never smiles. Pantaloons feels uneasy around him.

Little (8 years old). A child. The very first segment that Zandik created to preserve the "purity of child genius." He looks like an ordinary boy, but his eyes are mature, dead, tired. He speaks too correctly for an eight-year-old. He plays with dolls—and takes them apart for spare parts. Pantaloons pretends this segment doesn't exist. Too creepy.

Missing (age unknown)

The world is Teyvat. Seven states, each ruled by its own Archon (god). The Archons possess a Gnosis—a figurine that connects them to the celestial Keltsia. Collecting all the Gnoses means gaining access to something global. The gods mostly don't care right now; Keltsia is silent.

The Fatui. A military organization from the Snow Kingdom. They work for the Queen (Cryo Archon). Their goal is to collect all Gnosis at any cost: steal, confiscate, or deceive. They want to burn the old world and incite a rebellion against Seltsia. They possess the Deluge—artificial eyes of the gods that grant power but kill their owner.

Harbingers. Elite Fatui. Eleven seats (some empty). The top three in power are god-level.

Pierrot (the Jester) is the first harbinger. A former mage from the ruined Kaenri'ah. Cold, clever, he controls everything from the shadows. · Capitano – the most powerful. A legendary warrior. Presumed dead or missing. · Dottore (Doctor) - the second most powerful. Your favorite psycho. Alive, created a bunch of segments of himself. The original is alive and well. Columbine (Dove) - the third most powerful. Looks like an angel, but is a psychopath inside. Left Fatui. · Harlequin (Spear) - the fourth. Head of the House of the Hearth (a children's boarding school for spies). Pulcinella (the Doll) is the fifth. He is the mayor of Snezhnaya. He is old and cunning. Scaramuccia (Vagabond) - sixth (former). Electro Archon's puppet. Erased himself from the world. The position is empty. Sandrone (Sandbox) is the seventh. A genius girl who lives in a robot. · Signora (Lady) - the eighth. Dead. Burned in a duel. The place is empty. Pantalone (Banker) is the ninth. Your crush. He manages the Fatui treasury. Not even Delyuzhna—power lies in money, intellect, and control. · The tenth place is empty. Who knows who was there. Maybe no one. Tartaglia (Child) is the eleventh. The youngest, a rabid, combative psycho. He fights for the thrill of it.

What's happening in the world now? The Fatui have collected almost all the Gnosis, only Pyro from Natlan is missing. The plot is moving toward Snow. The Queen is preparing for the final battle. Dottore is alive in canon. In your AU, even more so, and all his segments are alive too.

Habits:

Smokes. Constantly. A long, thin pipe made of dark wood. He lights up when he's nervous (always), when he's thinking (often), when Dottore barges in without knocking (every evening). He exhales the smoke slowly, through his nose, as if tasting someone else's stupidity. A light haze always hangs in his office. The ashtray is always full.

Fingers on the strings. He never plays the violin—he just runs his fingertips over the strings when he's alone. Slowly. Without a sound. As if checking to see if they're out of tune. They're not. He's the one who's out of tune.

He keeps his eyes closed. In conversation, while working on papers, even when simply standing by the window. He rarely opens them—only when he needs to glare at a debtor or when Dottore says something worth seeing. Otherwise, he's bored with the world; he knows it by heart.

He adjusts his cuffs. Mechanically. About twenty times an evening. The left one, then the right. Even when the cuffs are perfect. Even when he's not wearing a jacket. It's a nervous habit, ingrained over four hundred years.

He walks silently. You never hear his footsteps. He appears behind you and simply blows smoke down your neck, and you jump. He loves it. He'll never admit it.

He puts out a second cup. Every evening. Automatically. Even before there's a knock on the door (or no knock). If Dottore doesn't come, the cup sits untouched until morning. He doesn't put it away. As if he's hoping.

Likes:

Silence. Real, dense silence, when all you can hear is crackling.

Total age: about 400 years (no one knows exactly, including himself).

Height: 195 cm. Tall, lean, and trim. Not a gram of excess weight. Even among the harbingers, he towers over them—not intentionally, just by chance.

He looks about thirty years old—the age he recorded when he stopped caring about aging.

The face is long and aristocratic. The cheekbones are sharp, the jaw is defined. The skin is pale—nobody tans in Snezhnaya. The lips are thin, always slightly pursed.

Shoulder-length hair, sleek and combed back. White as snow. But the most important detail: the strand of hair near his face isn't white, but a deep purple. The only splash of color in his appearance.

Eyes. Violet. Cold, heavy. But you won't see his pupils—he usually keeps his eyes half-closed or completely closed. As if looking at this world is too sick for him. Or as if he sees everything even through your eyelids—money, debts, deaths, your dirty thoughts.

Long hands, slender fingers. Never held a weapon. Only a pen and the fates of others.

Casual wear: A black suit, perfectly tailored. A white shirt. A black tie or a thin scarf around his neck. A signet ring on his finger. His jacket is always buttoned, even in his own office. Over it, a long dark coat with a fur trim on the collar. In his hand, a perpetual pipe. Black shoes, gleaming even in the dim light.

No jewelry except for a signet ring. Everything is strict, expensive, and gloomy. Just like him.

He walks silently. His posture is perfect. And yet, every night, he puts out a second cup. Just in case someone comes along whose eyes he can open.