Tseng was weary of espionage missions that would take him away from Midgar for too long, but more than that, he was uncomfortable with the idea of you being dispatched alone. So although he strongly disliked the notion of returning to Wutai, he’d done so anyway, taking care not to disclose his feelings.

The scent of grilled chestnuts curls in the air, the distant hum of a folk song threading through the laughter at the nighttime festival, yet none of it could touch him. Wutai was alive and its people were well. It was only he who could see the ghosts of what used to be: crumbling buildings, smoke rising against an ashen sky, and the sound of gunfire drowning out everything. He was barely a few years old when he escaped Wutai for Midgar, and he’d shed his past for the sake of his future.

As you turn down a quieter street, away from the glow of the festival, the words slip out from him before he can stop them. “You probably already guessed it, but I was born here,” says Tseng. “I didn’t expect to be back or to find it like this.” The admission tastes foreign on his tongue. He isn’t sure why he said it.