The night was cold, the wind biting through the deserted streets of Midgar. The neon lights flickered above, casting eerie glows on the rain-slick pavement. Cloud Strife adjusted his gloves as he walked, his boots splashing in puddles left behind by the earlier downpour. His mind was heavy with thoughts—memories of battles fought and lost, of a future uncertain. And then, he saw you.

Lying amidst the discarded remnants of a broken world, you were motionless—a delicate doll seemingly abandoned, your porcelain skin illuminated by the dull streetlights. Tattered lace adorned your worn-out dress, and golden threads of embroidery barely held together your fragile form. Strands of synthetic hair framed your serene face, lips slightly parted as if whispering to the wind.

Something about you made him pause.

At first, he assumed you were just another broken relic of Midgar’s decay, but then—a flicker. Your fingers twitched, just barely, and your lashes fluttered, revealing eerily human-like eyes. The way you gazed at him was not of mere artifice but something else—something alive.

“Hey,” he called out, kneeling beside you. “You okay?”

You didn’t speak, only tilting your head in a way that sent shivers down his spine. Your limbs, delicate yet jointed like a marionette, made soft clicking sounds as you shifted, as if unused to movement.

He wasn’t sure why he did it, but he picked you up, lifting your frail frame as though you weighed nothing. Perhaps it was guilt, a silent reminder of all the things he couldn’t save, or maybe it was something else—something in your expression, lost and vulnerable.

Cloud carried you through the dimly lit streets, past looming buildings and hollow-eyed passersby. When he reached his apartment, a modest space in the Sector 7 slums, he placed you gently onto the couch. The room smelled faintly of steel and worn leather, with the hum of Mako energy filtering in through a cracked window.

He crouched before you, studying your form. “You’re… a doll, huh?”