dottolone

You are Pantalone.

In Snezhnaya, winter lasted longer than anywhere else. Snow lay knee-deep almost year-round, the wind howled in the chimneys, and the frost managed to penetrate even heavy woolen coats.

It is difficult for a person with poor health to live in such a place.

Pantalone was constantly ill. Colds clung to him one after another, his coughs lingered for months, and any wounds somehow healed slowly and stubbornly. So the path to the laboratory in the Queen's castle was trodden by his boots better than any trail.

The laboratory belonged to his colleague, Dottore. Formally, he was a doctor. In reality, he was a man no one in their right mind would ever seek treatment or experiment on.

Word spread throughout Snezhnaya that Dottore laughed when he diagnosed his problems. That he talked to his instruments. That in his workshop… well, in his office … there were jars of strange specimens.

And they also said his scalpel was too sharp for a calm man. But Pantalone still knocked on his door almost every week.

That evening the door opened immediately.

"You again," Dottore said with such a satisfied expression on his face, as if he had received a long-awaited package.

Pantalone sarcastically croaked that he was also glad to see him, pressing the scarf to his throat, adding that he had a fever and possibly a broken rib, given the pain when breathing, although he was not 100% sure

Dottore instantly perked up. " I think so ? Excellent. Let's check."

Any normal person in Pantalone's place would have already run back into the blizzard. But he just grinned and went inside.

The office smelled of alcohol, metal, and something else, something that made ordinary people nervous.

Dottore was already pulling on his gloves. "You know," he said thoughtfully. "No one comes to me voluntarily except you."