"Man decays, his corpse is dust, all his kin have perished; but a book makes him remembered through the mouth of the reciter."

The Immortality of Writers

"What are you reading?"

He tilted his head, leaning against Mia's shoulder as she diligently scribbled Russian vocabulary across her notebook.

"Пока петух не клюнет — мужик не перекрестится."

("Until the rooster pecks your forehead, a man won't cross himself.")

"Russian folklore. Great for learning archaic words," Mia said with a soft chuckle, nudging his head away as his hair tickled her neck.

"You should read scientific reports—essential for work. Technical terms and—"

"But last time I asked about some words, you scolded me senseless," Mia sighed. "Anyway, I thought you hated me."

"Hated you?" Dottore's voice rose. "Who said that?" After a brief pause, he continued, "It's just... I was busy then. I'm not a great teacher, Mia. I'm... terrible at guiding others."

"Then teach me real science, and I'll learn it. But if you just want me washing tools, forget it."

Dottore froze, toying with a strand of her hair. "Don't set terms with me, Mia. You know I'm not a patient man."

Not a patient man...

Dottore was practically gasping for air. He'd meticulously explained the dosage, the solution groups, guiding her hand step-by-step. Yet the moment he turned away, she botched the ratio.

"Just... a tiny mistake..." she whispered, shrinking like a puff of cotton.

Dottore sighed, stormed out, bellowed down the hallway, then returned, splashing cold water on his face to swallow the unprofessional tirade itching to escape.

"Mia... I told you, be precise with the dosage. One drop at a time, understand? You can't let them vary in size."

Mia bowed her head, hands trembling as she tried again, drops spilling in her panic.

Out of options, he took her hand—gentle, warm, steady—guiding the pipette to release exactly five uniform drops into the vial.

"Good. What's next?"

"Sodium Citrate, 2.9 grams," Mia said, measuring with a tiny spoon.

"Yes, 2.9 grams. No deviations."

"Okay." She poured it into the flask. "Finally, one liter of distilled water."

"Good." Dottore stirred the solution and placed it in the ultrasonic shaker.

"Anhydrous glucose, 13.5 grams—bit much, no?"

"So what? Trust me, the patients here are tough as oxen. They won't die."

"He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking." - Leo Tolstoy – Anna Karenina

"Hm?" Dottore curled up, nuzzling Mia's stomach, yawning lazily.

The weather was bleak, snow falling endlessly, wind howling outside. Inside, thick walls hummed with heaters. A large cat rolled on the wicker sofa, nestled in its newfound lair.

"Hmmmm..."

Dottore purred as Mia scratched his neck. With a free hand, she read aloud striking or sappy lines, as he'd call them.

"Ugh... don't move..." he grumbled. Mia had barely shifted to ease her stiffness when he clung tighter, likely skipping the lab today. The staff would find it odd—or delightful.

"Stop nuzzling... it tickles."

"No. I'm exhausted. You know, that Jester—texts me one minute, sends a secretary to babysit the next. Thinks I'm a child? Projects take time, not magic."

A torrent of flowery complaints poured from Dottore's charming mouth, heedless of whether Mia followed. He just needed someone to vent to—not a spy or anonymous snitch.

Mia listened, ruffling his hair into a mess, her other hand patting his back to soothe the grumbling scientist.

"No, Mia, I'm not a child..."

"You're acting like a moody teenager."

"As if you're so mature."

She fell silent, then let out a long sigh. "Dottore, you're a brilliant doctor, Russia's most renowned scientist," she said, her voice bright and teasingly adulatory. "A tiny issue like this can't stump you, right?"

"Hmmm..." Dottore crawled off Mia's lap, sat up, smoothed his hair, straightened his back, and adjusted his collar. "I'll finish that project and hurl the files at Pierro's face."

"Uh, throwing papers at your boss is rude. Not cool."

"Hmph, who says that old man has manners?" He pouted, about to storm off when...

"What?"

"Kiss me." Dottore slunk back to the chair.

Chụt.

"Hm... two kisses, then," he lingered.

Chụt chụt.

Two pecks on his cheeks. Dottore grinned, his red eyes sparkling with rare joy, before kissing her back.

"Remember my name?"

"Zandik. I remember."

"Hm... I love hearing you say it." He blushed. "Only you."

Since Dottore ditched his crow mask, his blazing red eyes terrified the staff even more when angry. They secretly nicknamed him "Dr. Conjunctivitis" in the B3 floor's gossip chat.

Hopefully, he'd never find out, or that group would face a real conjunctivitis outbreak, courtesy of his lab-grown virus.

Mia was granted frequent access to B6, often swiping Dottore's card at the panel. Normally, the elevator lacked a B6 button, but for Dottore and select elites, a retina or fingerprint scan opened the way.

Dottore issued Mia a special keycard to deliver documents, samples, or... old blankets, bubble tea, palate-destroying coffee, or simply to get a hug from her.

"With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls." - Shakespeare – Romeo and Juliet

"Ugh, so sappy," he mumbled, head on Mia's shoulder, chewing black bread dipped in five-spice chicken stew.

"So poetic—Shakespeare's words are a metaphor for more than love. Like two people from different worlds falling for each other. The wall could be status, mindset, or life's goals."

"I don't like fools, so I wouldn't date idiots."

"You're hugging me now. Do I look that smart?" she teased. "So you really value me, Doctor?"

"It's different, Mia. You've got talent, learning weird stuff unrelated to science—that's a real strength." He kissed her nape. "Sometimes you talk like Pantalone, all flowery and cryptic. But idiots can't talk like that."

"Like, 'Behind every great fortune there is a crime.' (Honoré de Balzac – Le Père Goriot)? Hmm?"

"Probably. That guy's always on about money, whining every time he signs my checks. Just sign it, quit yapping."

"He's never refused you. Oh, Zandik, you should send a thank-you note to your golden sponsor sometimes."

Dottore shook his head, pulling her close, his mind juggling multiple tabs of thought. Mia's gentle scent drew him back—cool mint from his bath soap and room diffuser. Yet her skin held another fragrance, familiar yet elusive. What was it? He couldn't place it.

"Cookbooks?"

Mia unpacked boxes as Dottore spoke through the intercom from B6, where phone signals faltered. He'd ordered new appliances for her, tossing in a few extras.

Flavors of Egypt, Nile Valley Traditions, and Desert Survival: Edible Flora & Fauna.

"Haha!" Mia doubled over, laughing at the titles.

"Stop it," Dottore muttered, voice quivering with embarrassment. "Send them down."

"Through the mini elevator?" She giggled. "What, you don't want me to deliver them personally, Dr. Zandik?"

"..." Dottore rubbed his nose, waiting for the mini elevator's ding.

TING

Inside were not just cookbooks but classics: War and Peace, Pride and Prejudice, and The Divine Comedy.

"Oh," he skimmed the summaries, smirking. "Quite the eclectic taste."

"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." - Dante Alighieri (Divine Comedy, Inferno)

Their voices aligned as Dottore held up The Divine Comedy.

"Oh, you like that line? Classic and—"

"Legendary," he finished. Another passage caught his eye. "L'amor che move il-"

"-sole e l'altre stelle," Mia chimed, eyes sparkling, hands on hips. "I thought you didn't like romance," she pouted. "Dante's words to Beatrice, though she guided him only once..."

"One trip through hell, darling," Dottore grinned. "If you guided me there, I'd worship you as an eternal goddess." His smile widened. "Even as a scientist! Haha."

"If I guide you, I'll take you to paradise, I swear." Mia twirled Zandik's hair, kissing his faint forehead scar. "To a place where everyone's accepted—every self, every desire. Oh, Zandik, how wonderful that would be."

"Yes, the world would be... so gentle." He bowed his head, forehead brushing her neck, arms tight around her. "I always wanted that, Mia. As a boy, I dreamed of growing up to be great, to make people better." His voice faded, words trailing into silence.

Mia rubbed his back, her gentle pats lulling Zandik into a dream. He lay beneath a sprawling palm, Nile breezes sweeping up the embankment. He turned, hearing children skip stones across the river.

The scent of sand, so soothing. Sunlight roasted figs drying on nearby racks. His hair tangled in the breeze, hands dusted with fine grains.

Dottore awoke, chilled, the bed beside him empty. Only since sharing it with Mia did he realize how vast a king-size bed could feel.

"Mia?" He flicked on the lamp. The room was bare, the bathroom empty. His feet hit the cold floor, making him wince.

Following the long hallway, he found Mia at its end, moonlight carving her dreamy, distant gaze. The open window let wind rush in. No wonder it was so cold.

Zandik grabbed a thick blanket, noticing Mia was sleepwalking. In the end, he wrapped her like sushi and carried her back to bed.

The next day, Mia burned with fever, coughing and bedridden. After IV fluids and antibiotics, Dottore changed her cold compress every ten minutes.

In delirium, Mia mumbled incoherently, calling for Zandik when lucid, tears streaming. Nurses summoned him from B4, where he juggled chemicals and new explosives for Pierro's latest project.

"Here." He spoon-fed ginger tea to Mia, propped on pillows.

"Mmm..."

"Come on, be good. Eat porridge, take your meds, sleep, and you'll be fine, okay?" Zandik stroked her hair, his hands faintly sharp with disinfectant.

Once Mia slept deeply, he returned to the lab. Explosives tests shook the building. He clicked his tongue, radioing upstairs security.

"Hey, any tremors in the west admin wing?"

"No, sir."

More explosive tests followed. Finally, he signed off and sent samples to Capitano.

"Done, damn it."

Muttering curses, he showered, scrubbing off gunpowder with two rounds of hot water, then climbed into bed. Mia slept soundly, fever gone but still cold.

Zandik stripped to the waist, wrapping Mia tightly, drifting off to the gentle scent of her chest.

"What's that?"

"Devastating crocodile curry." Zandik flipped through the cookbook, wearing a gas mask, stirring seven types of chili in a cast-iron pot.

Every kitchen vent roared at full blast as staff fled, tears and noses streaming.

Mia, mouth covered with a wet cloth, watched the mad doctor brew his dish, praying to Tsaritsa for winter's children.

"Sobek will haunt your dreams and strangle you," Mia coughed, watching him sear crocodile meat over high flames.

"Let him try. He'd need a visa for Russia. Our weather's no friend to desert gods."

The flavor... explosive.

Toilet explosive.

Zandik and Mia monopolized the bathroom for hours. Mia needed an IV, while he insisted he was fine, though his trembling hands betrayed him as he mixed electrolytes.

Their lips swelled like dumplings, faces pale, yet they laughed until breathless.

"The strongest of all warriors are these two — Time and Patience." - War and Peace

Tolstoy wrote to forget the goal. Counterintuitive, but true. Fixate on the distant end, and you'll miss a hundred real moments now.

If each day is a 25-mile stretch, if I let myself rest and sleep, if I focus on doing each small thing well—maybe I don't need to know when I'll reach the end.

Strangely, the destination might find me when I stop craving it.

"Zandik?"

"Hm?"

"So peaceful..." Mia leaned against his thigh, book resting on her stomach, gazing at twinkling stars.

"Keep talking, and it won't be."

"Haha."

The kettle hissed and shut off. Dottore shifted, pouring hot water into heat packs, tucking them under the thermal mat.

"Mia, come here to warm up." He rubbed his hands, pulling her into the tent's corner.

The new research site lacked fancy equipment or furnishings, but Pierro allowed Mia to come—otherwise, Zandik wouldn't have bothered.

"Mia, what if we spiked wine with ancient viruses? Would they survive to Jester's stomach?"

"..." Mia handed him cocoa, its warmth loosening his joints. "Plotting to assassinate your boss?"

"Just a hypothesis. If viruses survive high-proof alcohol, it's worth studying." He sipped, pulling Mia close, warming her.

"Look, Zandik!" Mia squealed, rushing outside, eyes on the sky. "The aurora! It's the aurora!"

Zandik gazed up, silent for a long moment before a slow smile spread. His mind danced with light waves.

"The green comes from oxygen atoms at 100-300 kilometers, emitting at 557.7 nanometers."

Mia turned, eyeing the mad scientist muttering.

"The red's also oxygen, above 300 kilometers where air's thinner, at 630.0 nanometers."

"Stop it, Zandik. That's not romantic at all."

He chuckled. "It's described by the electron's energy shift: Ephoton = Ehigh − Elow. Ehigh is the excited state, Elow the base. This photon energy, Ephoton, follows the Planck-Einstein formula."

"Ahh, stop! I don't want to hear it!"

Mia covered her ears, darting around the tent as he chased, reciting physics formulas, laughing, eager to torment her with dry principles.

Two UV heaters glowed, warming pots of Padisarah flowers.

"The original Padisarah bloomed in vibrant purple, blossoming only under the Flower Goddess's steps during the Sabzeruz festival, celebrating the bond of three gods..."

"Legend says this flower was tied to the Flower Goddess, one of three ruling ancient Sumeru alongside King Deshret and Greater Lord Rukkhadevata. Her story, though, is steeped in tragedy..."

"She was an exiled Seelie who sacrificed herself to aid King Deshret's pursuit of forbidden knowledge. Her death left him in endless grief and drove the original Padisarah to extinction."

Zandik sliced a cell sample, examining it under the microscope, tweaking dominant and recessive genes. Finally, he used suitable pollen and stigmas for new pollination.

"Two likely reasons for the original color's loss," Zandik said, shaking a test tube. "One, cross-pollination diluted the original color genes. Two, artificial mass extinction—someone deliberately eradicated a specific color to monopolize it."

"Padisarah became a powerful symbol of memory and remembrance..." Mia read on. "So, can you stop analyzing it so dryly?"

"No."

"If you restore the original color, what then?"

"Publish it and sell the rights for a fortune."

She rubbed her temples, sniffing a jar of herbs to calm down.

"No wonder you two are close."

"Close with who?"

"You and Pantalone."

"No."

"Yes."

"He's just—"

"Your sponsor?"

"Yeah."

"Bedmate?"

He shed his lab coat, removed his goggles, scrubbed his hands with alcohol thrice, then pulled Mia into the sleeping tent.

Mia trembled as he stripped her bare, clutching his shirt, curling into the blanket as Zandik's arms wrapped tightly around her.

"Cold, so cold."

"Just a bit," he laughed, his thrusts growing fiercer.

"No, my legs..."

She mumbled incoherently as he lifted one leg over his shoulder. His force overwhelmed her hips, nearly cramping them.

Her sobs mixed pain and pleasure, surging wildly. Zandik grew more fervent, pauses only letting her catch her breath in the thin air.

He pressed deeper, hand on her lower abdomen, pushing down.

"Ahhhhh..." Her loud moan thrilled him further.

"So adorable."

He pulled the blanket over Mia's bare body, adjusted his sowmi collar, donned his lab coat, smoothed his hair, and sat to write reports, listening to Pantalone on the radio.

"Equipment maintenance costs, research living expenses..."

"Ugh..." Mia stirred, rubbing her throbbing temples.

"Exhausted, love?" Zandik leaned down, setting the laptop aside, kissing her soft curls.

"Zandik?"

"Hm."

"What's your dream?"

"My dream?" He fell silent, pondering deeply. At 29, after a decade with the Fatui, he'd known frustration and futility but also exhilaration. Being named Second Harbinger so young was the ultimate recognition of his genius.

Mia waited, her hand tracing his cheek, gliding along his jaw, brushing stubbly black whiskers. The drip of melting snow tapped the research station's dome. The centrifuge's hum filled the quiet void.

"My dream is to make the world better." He kissed her forehead.

"My dream is to open a flower shop."

"I could make that happen."

Mia giggled, her laugh like birdsong in a briar patch. Even if it were her last moment, she'd have no regrets.