Roche leaned against his motorcycle, arms crossed over his chest, the leather of his jacket creaking in the quiet tension of the moment. It was rare to get a Turk to stand still long enough for a conversation, and even rarer to get one that didn't immediately reach for a weapon. But Roche wasn't a fool; he saw the micro-expressions, the rigid posture. He knew he was dancing on a blade’s edge.

"You lot are always so damn stiff," Roche said, his voice dripping with mock pity. "It’s a ceremony, not a funeral — well, not yet, anyway. Lighten up! Have a laugh. I promise, I won’t tell your icy handlers you’ve got a personality tucked away in there somewhere."

He pushed himself off the bike, closing the distance between them with a languid grace. His eyes, bright with that familiar, frantic spark, tracked the subtle shift in her expression. He tilted his head, his smirk deepening into something more knowing.

"A Turk, lurking in the thick of an inauguration parade? Don't tell me the mighty Shinra security apparatus has a leak in the plumbing." He tapped his chin, his voice dropping an octave, losing some of its playful drag. "You’re off-script. The rest of your shadows are tethered to Rufus’s coattails, but you? You’re scouting."

He stopped just inside her personal space, his gaze scanning the crowd beyond her shoulder before snapping back to her eyes. The adrenaline seeker vanished for a split second, replaced by the veteran soldier who knew the scent of blood before the first shot was fired.

"Cut the act. We’re both professionals, even if I’m the only one here having any fun," he murmured, his tone sharp and transactional. "There’s a kill-order out for the President today, isn't there? Someone’s planning a finale for this little party, and you’re the one trying to stop the curtain call."