Tartaglia’s Bathroom Bait

Tartaglia's hasty turn and retreat flipped an unseen switch, and the towering ghost beneath the chandelier unleashed a shriek, charging at him with unearthly speed, its shadowed form swallowing his view.

A woman's face surged into focus—hollow-eyed, blood-smeared, her twisted grimace a mask of torment—filling his screen before the world snapped to black, his first death sealed by Lisa's spectral hands.

He stared at the darkened display, his bravado crumbling into a flush of shame, the fearless Harbinger rattled to his core, his bladder nearly betraying him in the panic.

All that audacity, that bear-heart-leopard-guts swagger, had evaporated without his powers, leaving him as vulnerable as any mortal caught in Silent Hill's grip.

The crowd around him shifted awkwardly, their murmurs tinged with confusion, one muttering, "That's not how the books say it—ghosts should scatter if you back off!"

Another countered, "No, I've heard you've got to face them head-on with guts—some spirits cower if you charge!" while a third scoffed, "What, shovel-feed a ghost? That's absurd!"

"Maybe these otherworld ghosts don't play by Teyvat's rules," a fourth mused, their debate swirling as Tartaglia's frustration boiled—he'd trusted their chatter, and it'd cost him.

Cursing inwardly, he spat at the thought of relying on Liyue's folklore for this alien nightmare, vowing to trust his own instincts over their shaky ghost-hunting tips.

He restarted the game, breezing through to the fifth cycle with a seasoned flick of the controls, this time pausing to scour the first corridor for any hint to dodge Lisa's wrath.

No clues leapt out—the fifth cycle's hall offered nothing obvious, and Tartaglia's battle-sharp mind, while brilliant in a fight, fumbled in this puzzle of shadows and groans.

The way back was sealed, the corridor barren of answers, leaving him no choice but to steel himself and face the corner again, the ghost's looming threat a gnawing inevitability.

He rounded the bend, and there it stood—tall and groaning under the chandelier, its indistinct form radiating a dread that spiked his pulse despite his self-assured pep talk.

"No measly ghost's going to scare me," he growled, his earlier humiliation fueling a surge of anger that overpowered the fear clawing at his chest.

With a burst of resolve, he charged straight at it, determined to bulldoze through, only for the corridor's lights to snuff out, the ghost vanishing as darkness swallowed the way ahead.

Tartaglia faltered, his momentum stuttering into confusion, the sudden shift throwing his bravado off-kilter as he blinked into the pitch-black void.

Then he noticed it—the bathroom door, cracked open as before, cockroaches skittering across its frame, a faint invitation amid the groans still echoing from the unseen distance.

"What now?" he muttered, adrift in the gloom, the unopenable door taunting him as the path forward demanded he press on through the unknown.

"This flimsy scare won't stop a Fatui Harbinger," he snarled, his nose twitching with defiance as he surged ahead, the groans a maddening chorus gnawing at his fraying reason.

He reached the gate, and the chandelier flared back to life, casting light on walls crawling with cockroaches, the door to the sixth cycle yawning open like a reluctant escape.

Without a second thought, he barreled down the steps, shoving through to the next loop, the brightly lit corridor a deceptive calm after the fifth's oppressive terror.

Would Lisa stalk him here too? Tartaglia couldn't say, but the last cycle's ambush had left him twitchy, every shadow a potential leap from that hollow-eyed specter.

He edged toward the corner, nerves taut, when the bathroom door swung wide, its dark maw gaping as the far exit locked shut in the distance—a clear shove toward the inevitable.

The game was herding him in, and memories of the radio's tale—the daughter's death in that very room—prickled his skin, hinting at a new ghost waiting to pounce.

He balked, his gut screaming to avoid it, yet the path forward left no choice, his boots dragging as he approached the bathroom's threshold with reluctant dread.

A faint glow caught his eye—a flashlight beam spilled across the floor, a lone beacon in the blackout, its promise of sight a lifeline he couldn't ignore.

It reeked of a trap, that light glinting like bait, but with no other way out, Tartaglia steeled himself, stepping in to snatch it from the tiles.

The moment his fingers closed around it, the door slammed shut behind him, a dry laugh escaping him as he muttered, "Of course—knew it'd be like this."

His face twisted, half-resigned, half-exasperated, the bathroom's walls closing in as the game tightened its noose around his dwindling composure.

Liam watched from the counter, his system humming with delight, Tartaglia's cocktail of bravado, fear, and irritation a potent brew swelling his emotional reserves.

The crowd buzzed, their whispers a mix of awe and second-guessing, hooked on the Harbinger's dance with Silent Hill's relentless traps, each step a gamble.

Tartaglia gripped the flashlight, its beam his only ally now, the locked door a grim promise that whatever lurked here wouldn't let him leave unscathed.

This wasn't just a game—it was a crucible, and the bathroom's seductive pull had snared him, daring him to face what waited in its shadows.

***

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