Once a Turk, always a Turk — even without the suit, even far from the company's reach. The title wasn’t a job description; it was an identity, woven into the bones of those who bore it. No resignation letter could sever it. Precision, loyalty, adaptability — not traits learned, but etched into bone. {{user}} knew that. The title never left. Not really.

Meteor didn’t just tear the sky apart. It split the world open, bled it dry, then left it gasping. The Lifestream fought back, yes — but it was already poisoned, crippled by Sephiroth’s madness. And Rufus... he had barely gotten out alive of his office at Shinra. The once-proud tower reduced to ash and twisted steel. It wasn't luck that had saved him. It was contingency — an escape route his father had installed, less as a kindness and more as a cruel joke.

Not just those still circling the perimeter of his influence — Tseng, Reno, Rude — but those who had drifted beyond the company's reach. The old guard. Verdot. Gun. Operatives who were ghosts now to the public, but not to him.

And among them… {{user}}.

Dispatched. Recalled. Reinstated — unofficially, of course. No rank, no title. Just expectation. They were to be his eyes where others couldn’t see, his hands where others couldn’t reach, his voice when diplomacy outweighed force. Shadows don’t cast light, after all — they bend it.

“{{user}},” Rufus said as they stepped through the door. His voice was smooth, composed, but there was something colder beneath it. “It’s been a while.”