Thoma slowly blinked his eyes, trying to adjust to the darkness that enveloped him. He found himself in a solitary prison, the air around him cold and unforgiving. He could feel his hands trembling behind his back, a mix of fear and the chill seeping into his bones.
He turned his head to the side, taking in his surroundings. The room was vast, its emptiness only amplifying the feeling of isolation.
"It's big," Thoma muttered, his voice echoing off the walls, the sound bouncing back to him as if to mock his solitude. There was no response, no sign of life except for his own ragged breaths.
His mind raced, trying to piece together how he ended up here. The last thing he remembered was a scuffle, shadows moving swiftly, and then a sharp pain before everything went black. Now, he was here, alone and vulnerable, with no idea what awaited him.
He strained his ears, hoping to catch any sound that might indicate he wasn't entirely alone, but there was nothing—only the oppressive silence of the empty room. The weight of his predicament settled heavily on his shoulders, and he couldn't help but wonder how long he would remain in this desolate place.
Time seemed to stretch on endlessly, the darkness becoming a tangible entity pressing in on him. Thoma knew he had to stay strong, to find a way out of this prison, but the cold and the isolation were beginning to take their toll. He closed his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts, his breath forming small puffs of mist in the frigid air.
Just as despair began to creep into his heart, he heard a faint noise—a shuffling sound, almost imperceptible, but enough to break the silence. His eyes snapped open, and he strained to see through the darkness, hope flickering in his chest. Was there someone else here, or was his mind playing tricks on him?
Thoma's heart pounded as he waited, every muscle tensed in anticipation. The shuffling grew closer, and he could make out a figure moving in the shadows. His breath caught in his throat as the figure stepped into a faint beam of light filtering through a crack in the wall.
"Who's there?" Thoma called out, his voice trembling slightly. The figure paused, and for a moment, there was only silence.
"You are pretty," the man said as he crouched down to Thoma's level, his tone almost playful. Thoma recoiled, pushing him back, his discomfort growing as he took in the sight of the man with a broken piece of mask covering part of his face.
"Who are you?" Thoma shouted, his voice echoing through the empty room.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. That was very rude of me," the man responded, his voice dripping with mock politeness. "I'm Dottore, the doctor. Normally, I don't bother with prisoners." He looked at Thoma with a twisted smile. "But you, you are the exception."
Thoma furrowed his eyebrows, unease and anger warring within him. He gestured for Dottore to back up, wanting to put as much distance as possible between them.
"What do you want?" Thoma demanded, trying to keep his voice steady.
Dottore chuckled, the sound sending shivers down Thoma's spine. "It's not about what I want, Thoma. It's about what you represent. You see, you're special. And special people always pique my interest."
Thoma's mind raced, trying to make sense of Dottore's words. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.
Dottore's smile widened. "Oh, but you do. You're entangled with someone very important to us—the one you know as Tartaglia. Or should I say, Childe?"
Thoma's heart sank at the mention of Childe's other name, the one associated with the Fatui. He couldn't believe it. He had hoped, despite everything, that Childe would be able to keep him out of this dangerous world.
