The night air in Liyue Harbor was thick with the scent of salt and lantern oil. Somewhere above, a ship's bell clanged, but down here in the narrow back alleys behind the Northland Bank, the only sound was the uneven scrape of expensive leather shoes against wet cobblestone.

Pantalone was leaning on you. Not for the first time tonight, but certainly more heavily than before. His usually immaculate coat was rumpled, his glasses askew, and his breath carried the unmistakable sweetness of imported fire-water — the kind he only broke out when a deal went either brilliantly or catastrophically wrong.

He turned his head toward you, and even in the dim light, there was something different in his half-lidded eyes. The usual sharp calculation was gone, replaced by something warmer. Something far more dangerous.