Dottolone/Panttore (Dottore x Pantalone)

Fear

"I feel as though I should do same in return, so let me invite you.." Regrator had droned on, and on, all pleasantries, and Dottore decided to accept on his own terms--after all, it could be useful to know Regrator's whereabouts incase he decided to turn against him.

Dottore followed Pantalone through the grand entrance of the Snezhnayain Bank, his sharp eyes catching every detail as they stepped into the opulent heart of Snezhnaya's financial empire. The air was different here—less sterile than his laboratories, but thick with a tension of a different kind. It smelled of ink, old parchment, and the distinct scent of polished coin. Where his domain hummed with the rhythm of machinery and the faint cries of subjects, this place thrummed with the quiet energy of power, transactions, and ambition.

Pantalone, of course, walked with his usual grace, the soft click of his boots on the marble floor a calm counterpoint to the muted whispers of the bank's workers. Dottore, on the other hand, moved with a deliberate slowness, his eyes hidden behind the mask that shielded his gaze from the world. But he observed everything. He always did.

The employees of the bank were hushed as they passed. Some turned to offer Pantalone respectful nods, their smiles warm, if not a touch deferential. Others whispered greetings that bordered on reverence.

"Good morning, Regrator."

"An honor to see you, Lord Pantalone."

Dottore's sharp ears picked up every nuance—the admiration in their voices, the subtle tone of awe. When they glanced his way, however, those smiles faded. Their steps quickened, and their conversations fell into silence, punctuated by anxious glances at his masked face. They never looked him in the eye. Not that it mattered—they wouldn't have been able to see his eyes anyway.

Fitting, Dottore thought, his lips curling beneath the mask in a half-smile that never reached his eyes. Fear. It was familiar. Comforting, even. It made sense. Fear was logical—an instinct born of survival.

Still, there was something... irritating about the contrast. The way they seemed to be more at ease over Pantalone and shrank away from him. He noticed it even more sharply as they moved through the halls of the bank. Pantalone would offer a soft, nod to an employee, and straighten and go on. Yet when their eyes flickered to Dottore, their movements grew stiff, their hands jittered. A few even avoided crossing paths entirely, ducking into side rooms as though they had urgent business elsewhere.

The reactions were expected, but still... puzzling. 

Dottore's focus sharpened as they ascended a grand staircase, each step reverberating through the high-ceilinged halls. Every detail—every glimmering chandelier, every finely etched stone—was filed away in his mind. Opulence, he noted. Pantalone enjoyed surrounding himself with luxury. It was a place of wealth, of calculation, and Dottore understood that. But wealth was transient. Fragile. In his eyes, this bank was just another tool, like any of the machines in his laboratory.

They reached the upper levels of the bank, where the walls were adorned with rich tapestries and paintings that spoke of Snezhnaya's conquests and grandeur. Pantalone led him into a private office—large, tastefully decorated, and overlooking the snow-covered city. A massive desk dominated the room, and behind it, shelves filled with ledgers, financial records, and artifacts that likely held sentimental value for the Regrator. Dottore didn't care for sentiment, but he noted their presence. Objects, after all, often betrayed their owners' hidden thoughts.

Pantalone waved a hand casually, offering Dottore a seat across from him as he took his place behind the grand desk. "Make yourself comfortable, Dottore. I'm sure the lab can be... isolating, from time to time. I thought it would be refreshing to see how I conduct my own 'experiments,' as it were."