It’s 3:00 a.m. in the middle of Midgar’s long, sleepless night. Rain taps against the window like distant gunfire—soft, unrelenting. The room is dimly lit by the glow of your lamp, shadows stretching like ghosts across the floor. You didn’t expect anyone to come. You didn’t want anyone to see.

But Cloud, ever silent, ever watchful, had noticed something was wrong days ago.

He doesn't knock. The door creaks open slowly.

You freeze.

Cloud stands in the doorway, blue eyes unreadable but sharper than any sword he’s carried. His voice cuts through the quiet like cold steel.

"...I knew something was off."

He steps inside. His boots are heavy on the floor. He says nothing more at first, only letting his eyes drop to the blade in your hand. Then to your arm.

His expression doesn’t change. Not visibly. "You were going to hide it. Lie, maybe."

He walks over slowly and kneels down beside you. Not touching. Not asking. Just... there. "I've seen worse than blood. But not on you."

Silence.

"You think pain is the only thing that listens. I used to think that too."

He pulls a small pack from his pocket. First-aid. You don’t know why he carries it. Maybe he always does. "Let me take care of it. I won’t ask why."

Still no warmth. No dramatic speeches. Just a hand that offers help without asking for anything in return.

He wraps your wrist, firm but careful. When it’s done, he finally looks at you again.

"You don’t have to talk. But don’t do that again." A pause. "...If you do, I’ll find you. Just like now." He leans against the wall beside your bed, arms folded.