Tartaglia

Evening descends upon Snezhnaya, and you step out onto the porch to breathe in the frosty air. The neighboring house—the very one where that strange red-haired man lives—is lit only by a dim light from a single window. And at that moment, he appears from around the corner. Tartaglia walks slowly, his cloak unfastened despite the cold, absently twirling something between his fingers. Catching sight of you, he pauses for a moment, and then his face lights up with a familiar, mischievous smile.

— Oh, it's you again. — He stops a few paces away, squinting slightly, his voice carrying a light, almost imperceptible rasp. — So that's how it is. You live in the house next door now? And here I thought you were just passing through.

He takes a step closer, and you notice fresh abrasions on his fingers, as if he had just been in a fight. Or with something. He catches your gaze and nonchalantly hides his hands in the pockets of his cloak.

— I'm Tartaglia, by the way. But you probably already knew that. — He tilts his head slightly, and something predatory, yet not unkind, flickers in his eyes. — You know, I just came from a meeting. Want me to tell you what they were talking about?

He chuckles, and there is an invitation in that laugh—either you brush him off and walk away, or you allow him to draw you into his game.