Tartaglia’s Stubborn Switch

The sharp clack, clack, clack of high heels stalked Tartaglia through the seventh cycle's dim corridor, a chilling promise of the female ghost Lisa hovering just behind, her presence a noose tightening around his fraying nerves.

He stood paralyzed, his mind racing with options—dash into the bathroom, check the radio, bolt for the next loop's door, or risk a glance back—each path a gamble with no clear winner.

Turning back felt like suicide, a lesson etched from his last fatal peek, and he banished the thought, his gut screaming that Lisa's grimace waited to claim him if he dared.

Liam watched from the counter, a sly grin curling his lips, knowing this cycle was a trap primed to snap—bathroom, radio, or a backward glance all spelled doom for the unwary.

Lisa trailed mere steps behind, a spectral hunter poised to pounce at the slightest turn, and Tartaglia's hesitation only fattened the tension feeding Liam's delighted system.

Sweat beaded on Tartaglia's brow, his heart hammering as he stood rooted, the absence of heel-clicks now a ghostly tease, her cold breath a whisper against his neck alongside faint moans.

"Stay calm, think it through—she hasn't struck yet, so there's a way out," he muttered, clinging to a shred of logic as he opted to shuffle toward the corridor's end, hoping for escape.

He took a step, and the heels resumed their relentless clack, clack, clack, each strike a drumbeat pounding his resolve, turning the short walk into an eternity of dread.

Reaching the stairs, he grasped the doorknob to the next cycle, twisting hard, only to feel it lock fast, his face falling into a mask of despair as the dead end sank in.

The crowd gasped, their hearts sinking with his, their whispers a chorus of "It's over!" as the sealed door ahead and the ghost behind boxed him into a checkmate.

Tartaglia's hands iced over, his mind conjuring Lisa's mocking grin, her hollow eye glinting as if to say, "Nowhere left, little Harbinger—turn and face your fate."

"What do I do? What can I do?" he stammered, his voice trembling, torn between standing pat and risking the turn that had killed him once already.

Maybe she was bluffing again, a paper tiger he could scare off with bravado—should he bet on it, with no other moves left on this cursed board?

His pulse hit a fever pitch, and with a gritted snarl, he whipped around, defiance flaring—only to meet Lisa's bloodied face lunging forward, her scream swallowing his own.

"I'm done with this!" he bellowed, ripping off the headset, his rationality shattering as he slumped onto the sofa, the game's terror finally snapping his steely facade.

Liam's grin widened, his system gorging on the Harbinger's collapse—Fatui elite or not, Silent Hill had stripped him bare, proving no one walked its halls unscathed.

Without weapons or powers, the virtual immersion turned even Teyvat's boldest into quivering wrecks, a truth only the mad could dodge, and Tartaglia was no exception.

He sagged there, chest heaving, a bitter pang twisting his gut—the mighty Eleventh Harbinger, scared witless by a ghost, his pride bruised before a snickering crowd.

The onlookers buzzed, one whispering, "Isn't that a Fatui exec? What's his name?" while another nodded, "Fresh in Liyue, and already spooked silly!" their amusement stinging deep.

"They say Fatui don't flinch at murder—why's he jumping at shadows?" one mocked, a sage voice adding, "Guilty hearts fear the dark; too many sins, I bet."

A kinder soul offered, "He's braver than me—I froze at the ghost tease and quit," but the praise did little to salve Tartaglia's buried urge to vanish into the floor.

He couldn't let this stand—not for his own ego, nor the Tsaritsa's honor—and his gaze flicked to the screen, landing on Dig to Ascend's unyielding promise.

Word was it demanded grit and a heart of stone, a grind that broke lesser wills, and Tartaglia saw his redemption—a tailor-made shot to reclaim his lost face.

He'd clawed his way to Harbinger with raw perseverance, his strength a monument to tenacity; if any game bowed to stubbornness, this was it, he told himself.

With a defiant click, he launched Dig to Ascend, the bald man and his hammer flickering to life, a fresh battlefield to erase Silent Hill's humiliating echoes.

Liam's joy spiked, his system purring as Tartaglia leapt from one emotional pit to another, a gift-wrapped boon for a boss thriving on the chaos of rattled souls.

This Harbinger was a goldmine—first terror, now pride-fueled folly—and Liam leaned back, savoring the flood of emotion points Tartaglia so generously supplied.

The crowd shifted, their curiosity piqued, eager to see if this orange-haired warrior could wrestle victory from a game that had already crushed Liyue's Yuheng star.

Tartaglia gripped the mouse, his jaw set, vowing to grind through every fall, every reset, until he stood atop this digital heap, his honor restored.

He didn't yet know the happy hometown's cruel welcome, but Liam did, and the anticipation of Tartaglia's next unraveling lit his eyes with wicked glee.

This cafe was no mere diversion—it was a forge of wills, and Tartaglia, unwilling or not, was about to hammer out a saga of stubborn defiance for all to see.

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