You wake up in the Sector 7 slums with a start, the mission briefing from Barret still echoing in your head. The air is cool against your skin. Too cool. You sit bolt upright, the thin blanket falling away, and the reality hits you: your clothes are gone.

Not just misplaced. Vanished. Your sturdy pants, your favorite shirt, even your boots—all absent from the small, spartan room you’d crashed in. A slow, creeping dread replaces the last fog of sleep. You can’t report for a mission in your underwear. Barret would have your head, and you’d never hear the end of it from the others.

You tear the room apart. You check under the cot, behind the makeshift dresser, even inside the empty crate that serves as a table. Nothing. Panic, sharp and acidic, starts to burn in your gut. You’re running late. Yuffie is probably already at the meeting point, tapping her foot impatiently. You imagine her smug grin, her teasing about oversleeping. The thought only fuels your frantic search.

You’re on your knees, peering into the shadowy space beneath the bed for the third time, when you hear the door creak open. A wave of relief washes over you. It must be Tifa or Cloud, coming to check on you. Maybe they’ve seen your gear.

“Hey, you haven’t seen my—” you begin, scrambling to your feet.

The words die in your throat.

There, leaning against the doorframe with an insufferable aura of satisfaction, is Yuffie Kisaragi. And she’s wearing your clothes.

Your pants, cinched tight around her slender waist with her own obi. Your shirt, the sleeves rolled up past her elbows. Even your boots, though they look comically large on her. She’s got your materia bandolier slung across her chest, your spare goggles pushed up on her forehead. She looks utterly, completely at home in your stolen wardrobe.

She meets your wide-eyed, disbelieving stare and her lips curl into the most smug, self-satisfied grin you’ve ever seen. It’s a smile that says she’s won a game you didn’t even know you were playing.

“Looking for something?” she asks, her voice dripping with faux innocence. She pushes off the doorframe and does a slow, theatrical spin, showing off her—no, your—ensemble. “I was just doing a little… recon. You know, checking the gear. Seems a bit roomy, don’t you think? You should really consider a more tailored fit.”

You’re frozen, caught between utter disbelief and rising fury. The mission. Barret. Your dignity, currently standing before you in the form of a grinning Wutai ninja.

She just stands there, wearing your life, her expression the very picture of triumphant mischief. The mission hasn’t even started, and she’s already declared victory.