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Snow fell softly outside the café windows, blurring the sharp edges of Snezhnaya’s streets into something almost gentle. Inside, the air was warm with the scent of roasted coffee beans and caramelized sugar. Crystal lamps cast honeyed light across polished wood tables, and the faint murmur of patrons filled the space with comfortable noise.
You adjusted the sleeves of your uniform and exhaled slowly.
Just another shift.
You balanced a tray of porcelain cups against your palm, weaving between tables with careful precision. You were used to stares; the café was popular, and you’d been told more than once that your smile was “disarming.” But you never lingered on it. Tips were tips. Compliments were harmless.
Until the door opened.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop by several degrees.
Conversations quieted. Chairs scraped softly against the floor as a few patrons subtly straightened. You didn’t need to look to know who had entered.
Still, you did.
Two figures stepped inside, snow melting against dark leather and fur.
The ravenette wore a Snezhnayan coat trimmed in black fur at the hood and sleeves. Beneath it, a fitted black turtleneck adorned with six glittering gems, three on each side, and a distinct V-shaped gem below them. His curly black hair reached his shoulders, framing a face too composed to be called merely handsome. His smile was faint, knowing. Measuring.
The Ninth Harbinger.
Pantalone.
Beside him stood something far more unsettling.
A long beaked mask obscured the upper half of his face. Cyan hair fell in layered strands; shorter at the sides, longer in the back, with flowing bangs brushing against the mask’s edge. A blue cravat rested neatly at his throat. A crow-like attachment decorated his coat, and from one ear dangled a vial filled with glowing blue liquid.
Dottore.
The Doctor.
You nearly dropped the tray.
They weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. Authority clung to them like perfume- sharp and suffocating.
Your manager rushed forward, bowing stiffly. “Welcome, Harbingers. Your usual private table?”
Pantalone smiled politely. “Of course.”
Dottore said nothing. His masked gaze scanned the room lazily- until it stopped.
On you.
Your stomach dropped.
You quickly turned away, pretending to be very interested in setting down cups at another table. You could feel it though, that attention. Clinical. Curious.
Predatory.
“They’re staring at you,” one of your coworkers whispered urgently as you passed.
“I know,” you hissed back.
You hoped, foolishly, that they would remain in their secluded corner booth. That you could avoid direct interaction. That hope lasted approximately three minutes.
“Table in the back,” your manager murmured, nudging you forward. “Take their order.”
You stared at him in disbelief.
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Smile.”
You swallowed and approached. The private table was half-shadowed, but even in dim light, they commanded the space.
Pantalone sat with elegant posture, gloved hands folded loosely over the table. Dottore leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, head slightly tilted; studying you as if you were a specimen already pinned beneath glass. You stopped a careful distance away.
“G–Good evening,” you managed. “May I take your order?”
Pantalone’s dark eyes softened, but not kindly.
“Your voice trembles,” he observed smoothly. “Are we that frightening?”
You nearly choked. “N-No, Lord Harbinger.”
Dottore chuckled. The sound was low. Amused. Interested.
“Oh, he’s delightful,” Dottore murmured, voice smooth as silk drawn over steel. “Look at his pulse.”
Your heart hammered harder.
“I–I beg your pardon?”
“Your neck,” Dottore clarified lazily. “It’s visible. Fluttering. Like a trapped bird.”
Heat flooded your face. Pantalone leaned forward slightly, resting his chin against gloved fingers. “You must forgive my partner. He has a fascination with reactions.”
Partner.
Your brain stalled on that word.
Dottore tilted his head. “You are new here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long?”
“A few months.”
“Mm.” The Doctor tapped a finger against the table. “Young.” You stiffened.
“I’m of age,” you blurted defensively before thinking.
Pantalone’s smile deepened.
“Oh?” he hummed. “How reassuring.”
Dottore laughed again.
You wished the floor would swallow you whole.
“Coffee,” Pantalone said finally, sparing you- though the glint in his eye suggested this was only temporary mercy. “Black.”
“And something sweet,” Dottore added, still staring at you. “Surprise me.”
Your fingers tightened around your notepad.
“Y-Yes.”
You turned quickly, walking away before your legs could give out.
Behind you, Dottore spoke quietly…but not quietly enough.
“He blushes easily.”
“Indeed,” Pantalone replied. “Quite charming.”
“Do you intend to acquire him?”
Acquire.
Your breath caught.
You nearly collided with a table on your way back to the counter.
You tried to focus on preparing their order, hands shaking as you poured coffee into delicate porcelain cups. Every instinct screamed at you to avoid their gaze when you returned.
But when you approached again, they were no longer discussing business.
They were watching you. Waiting.
~
You set down the cups carefully.
“Your coffee.”
Pantalone’s gloved fingers brushed yours as he took the handle. It was intentional. And you felt it.
Dottore didn’t touch you, not yet. He simply leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, chin propped against folded hands.
“Do you live nearby?” he asked casually.
The question hit like a blade.
“I–I do.”
“Alone?”
You swallowed. “Why do you ask?”
“Curiosity.”
“Professional curiosity,” Pantalone chimed mildly. That didn’t make it better.
“I share a flat,” you said carefully. “With coworkers.” Dottore’s gaze sharpened.
“Ah. Witnesses.”
Your blood ran cold as you stared at him in caution and subtle confusion too. Pantalone’s foot nudged Dottore’s beneath the table, subtle, grounding. A silent conversation passed between them.
Established. Comfortable.
Dangerous.
“We won’t keep you long,” Pantalone assured you gently. “For now.”
For now.
You stepped back instinctively. Dottore stood up.
He was taller up close. The beaked mask cast a shadow across your face as he leaned in… just enough for you to feel his breath near your ear.
“You are trembling again,” he murmured.
“I–It’s cold,” you lied.
Dottore hummed thoughtfully.
“A lie.”
You sighed shakily.
Pantalone rose as well, adjusting his coat with unhurried grace.
“We’ve finished,” he said, placing far more Mora on the table than necessary. “Keep the change.”
Your eyes brightened up as you stared at the small fortune.
“Thank you, Lord Harbinger.”
Dottore stepped around you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours deliberately. You froze.
“Until next time,” he said softly.
Next time…
They left the café together, coats sweeping behind them like twin shadows merging into the snowstorm outside.
You stood there long after the door closed. Your coworkers whispered. Your manager beamed at the generous payment.
But all you could think about was the way Dottore had looked at you.
Like a puzzle he intended to dismantle.
And the way Pantalone had smiled, filled with malice.
Like you were already part of some transaction not yet negotiated.
~
That night, as you walked home through snow-laden streets, you tried to convince yourself it had meant nothing.
Powerful men amused by some lowly commoner, a damned waiter.
That was all.
Right?
~
The next evening, the door chimed again.
And they walked in. This time, their eyes found you immediately. Dottore’s head tilted. Pantalone’s lips curved.
You felt it then,
the shift.
This wasn’t coincidence. They had come back.
For you.
Pantalone approached first, unhurried.
“Good evening,” he said smoothly. “We would prefer to speak somewhere… quieter.”
Your heart pounded violently in your chest. Holy fuck.
Dottore stood just behind him, mask gleaming faintly under the lights.
“And we dislike waiting.”
You glanced toward your manager. He was already nodding eagerly. (What a psycho)
Of course he was. Your throat felt dry.
“I’m on shift though-”
“You can be compensated,” Pantalone replied.
“Generously,” Dottore added.
You took a step back. They stepped forward. Not touching. Not yet.
But the air between you felt charged.
Predatory..
Intent.
Dottore reached up slowly and removed his glove. Bare fingers brushed lightly against your wrist. Testing.
Your grimaced in both annoyance and fear, you were helpless and powerless beneath them.
“Such delicate skin,” he murmured.
Pantalone’s eyes darkened, gaze trailing down your frame in open assessment.
“Doctor,” he said quietly, though there was no real reprimand in it.
Dottore’s grip tightened just enough to keep you from pulling away. You were trapped between them- not physically restrained, but entirely cornered.
“Tell me,” Dottore whispered near your ear, voice velvet-soft and dangerous. “Are you frightened… or intrigued?” Your pulse raced wildly.
You opened your mouth to give out a response and yet nothing came out.
And judging by the slow, satisfied smile spreading across Pantalone’s face…
They intended to find out.
Uh oh.