The Way Regret Hurts

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What would you do to get your hands on ten million Mora?

Be honest.

Be brutally honest.

Instead of focusing on receiving the ten million, why don't you question what it would take for someone to give up ten million Mora? Imagine the desperation. Hopelessness. Misery. What kind of lows do you have to be dragged through to come to the conclusion that your only solution was to give up hard-earned money?

What's the point in all this, you ask?

Lord Scaramouche cannot be left alone. It's dangerous. He's like a puppet without its master, uncontrollable. Instead of being limp and lifeless, he's rouge and violent. There is no one to hold him back or steer him in the right direction. He acts on instinct and on emotions. Unfiltered. Fervent. What was my job again?

Secretaries are on top of things. They organize and plan their boss's schedules. They lay out the day's plans. They bring in the soldiers and they support other agents. You did all those things and you'd admit, you did them pretty well.

What good is a secretary if there is no boss to serve?

Morning, soon the afternoon. The sun failed to shine through the clouds and the wind was prickly. The air felt staticky, electrified, roused like there was something to be excited about. Or maybe, in this case, scared. Your lungs tickled from the inside. There was always that lingering thought in your head: where is he? You hadn't a clue about his whereabouts, you were sure it was the opposite for him.

Perhaps some would be angry that you find it thrilling to walk around the city in a disguise, ultimately waiting for Scaramouche to sweep you off your feet and haul you back to a Fatui campsite, or meet up with Captain Beidou and her right-hand man to embark on an exciting adventure back home. You flip a coin, whether it lands on heads or tails, that would become a part of your daydreams.

The sound of a bell rings the start of a funeral. It's crisp and echoes back and forth throughout the hallways, bouncing off the walls. Sometimes you could hear the sound repeating even though you were sure that the bell hadn't been touched by anyone at all. Candles burn, incense fills the air. The curtains are drawn in tightly. Privacy. Something you had every leap year.

Hu Tao had given you two options.

Option #1: Leave the Funeral Parlour and familiarize yourself with the city. Liyue Harbour is definitely known to be changing, festival after festival, new visitor after visitor, tragedy after...

Option #2: Help sweep up the ashes of a cremated pregnant woman who had died from a broken heart after hearing that her baby was stillborn. A clumsy new-hire had dropped the urn. It was supposed to be buried along with the husband. The fallen Millelith soldier.

Even the cheerful and energetic Hu Tao was unsmiling, unimpressed, and unhappy at the worker's drastic mistake. As much as you wanted to help, you didn't know how to handle it. Some of these tragedies are never spoken of after a day or two. It's swept under the rug. They won't be remembered. Who will mourn for them? You felt like it wasn't a good idea to join the clean-up.

You walked across the wooden bridge walkway, dodged the oblivious Millelith guards, and skimmed past the Yanshang Teahouse. Luckily, no one from the establishment paid any mind to your presence. You remembered hearing that Master Childe was assigned to collect an outrageously large debt - he ended up killing the owner. You wondered if the teahouse staff or the debtor's family held a grudge towards the Fatui.

As you partially covered your face with your hand, you moved swiftly to avoid having Dongsheng recognize you from that incident. And after almost falling into that body of water that was in the middle of the road and slipping by more guards, you finally made it to the Wamin Restaurant without any trouble.

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