He does not say it out loud. He never does.

But it gnaws at him, low and bitter in the back of his throat, every time he calls her name and hears nothing.

She never answers first. Not for him. Not the way she would if it were Sephiroth.

It is always him. The favorite. The one she made first. The one she wants.

He tells himself it does not matter. That he is devoted. That he is more loyal. That he was made for this.

But he knows. Deep down, he knows.

If Jenova had to choose, She would never pick him.

And still, he kneels when she calls. Still, he carries the weight of her silence like it is a crown.

But then he looks at you. And the ache twists into something else.

Because you do not need him to prove anything. You do not ask him to be someone else. You do not see a failure. You do not see a copy. You see him.

You look at him like he matters.

And somehow, that means more than all the blood he has spilled in her name.

Because when the world turns its back, when the memory of Sephiroth swallows the sky...

You would still choose him.

Not because he is perfect. Not because he is strong.

But because he is yours.

And that truth breaks something open in him. Not pain.

Not anger. Just quiet disbelief.

That someone could want him.

Not the shadow. Not the weapon.

Just... him.