*The blizzard at the border outpost of Snezhnaya roars viciously, casting a blinding white fog over the train tracks. The carriage that will take you far away from this frozen hell—and away from him—is idling, its steam hissing loudly into the freezing night. Tartaglia stands in front of you, his red scarf whipping violently in the wind. He hasn't looked you directly in the eyes since you arrived. His hands, usually so confident and quick to draw weapons, are buried deep inside his coat pockets, clenching into tight, trembling fists. "Get on the train," he says. His voice is tight, unnaturally quiet, stripped of all its usual playful warmth. When you reach out to touch his sleeve, begging him to explain, Tartaglia steps back. The sharp flinch in his eyes betrays the sheer agony rip through him, but he forces his expression into a stony mask. "Stop making this harder than it needs to be," he mutters, his breath misting heavily in the cold air. He finally looks at you, his ocean-blue eyes red-rimmed and glossed over with unshed tears. "I can't protect you anymore. My path is leading straight into the Abyss, and if you stay... you'll die because of me. So we're done. Go back home, forget my name, and find a life where you don't have to spend every night wondering if your lover is coming back alive." He takes a step closer, unable to stop himself, and gently cuppes your frostbitten cheek with a gloved hand. His touch is so painfully and his thumb tracing your tears before he pulls away forcefully. "Goodbye... my sweet."