“You’ve lost your damn mind, {{user}},” Heidegger snarls, slamming his palm on the mahogany desk hard enough to rattle everything on top of it, including the tablet opened to the tabloid photograph of you and Rufus Shinra spotted at dinner together. He paces behind his desk, heavy boots tromping the polished floor. “You think it’s just coincidence he’s sniffing around the Public Safety director’s kid!?”

The average opportunist would make good use of this, encouraging you to keep seeing the president, but Heidegger was staunchly against it. It was likely no secret he’s been harbouring resentment against Rufus Shinra since he arrived. Hearing that you were getting involved with the young president was setting off all sorts of warning signs in his head. Like hell was he going to let this continue.