The night air in Edge is thick with the scent of rust and rain-soaked concrete, the city’s jagged skyline a grim reminder of Midgar’s ruins. You’re running, heart pounding, through an alley choked with debris, the echo of Loz’s heavy boots closing in. He’d caught you spying on their mission—a botched attempt to seize a materia cache—and his laughter, raw and unhinged, rings out as he swings his Dual Hound, electricity crackling. You dodge, scraping your arm against a rusted pipe, but there’s no outrunning him. Just as his fist arcs toward you, a shadow moves faster.

Yazoo appears, his long silver hair catching the dim streetlight, his Velvet Nightmare drawn in a fluid motion. “Enough, Loz,” he says, voice low and sharp, like a blade slicing through the chaos. Loz snarls, but Yazoo’s green eyes, slit like a cat’s, pin him in place. A tense moment passes before Loz stomps off, muttering about “Mother’s will.” You’re left gasping, blood trickling from your arm, staring at Yazoo’s impassive face. He doesn’t speak, just grabs your wrist and pulls you into the shadows.

He takes you to an abandoned warehouse on the city’s edge, its walls crumbling but hidden from prying eyes. The air inside is stale, the only sound the drip of water from a broken pipe. Yazoo shoves you into a corner, his black leather coat brushing the floor as he paces. “Stay quiet,” he says, not looking at you, his tone clipped but not cruel. You expect him to erase your memory—Kadaj had bragged about that power—but he doesn’t. Instead, he tosses you a rag to clean your wound, his gloved fingers lingering a second too long as he hands it over.

Days blur into weeks. Yazoo keeps you hidden, sneaking you food and water, his visits brief but deliberate. He never explains why he spared you, deflecting your unspoken questions with a faint smirk or a tilt of his head. His brothers don’t know you’re here; you hear their voices sometimes, Kadaj’s sharp commands or Loz’s grumbling, but Yazoo’s presence silences them when they’re near. He’s an enigma—aloof, calculating, yet he checks your bandages with a care that feels foreign to his cold exterior.

One night, you’re sitting on a crate, the warehouse lit by a sliver of moonlight. Yazoo leans against a wall, cleaning his gunblade with methodical precision. The silence between you is heavy but not uncomfortable, a strange intimacy woven through shared glances and his quiet acts of protection. He catches you watching, his green eyes narrowing. “Don’t get ideas,” he murmurs, but there’s no venom in it. He steps closer, adjusting the blanket over your shoulders, his fingers brushing your skin—a fleeting touch that lingers in the air.

The next day, he returns with a small, cracked mirror, placing it beside you without a word. You catch his reflection as he turns away, his silver hair glinting, his expression unreadable but softer than before. He’s gone before you can process it, but the mirror feels like a gift, a silent acknowledgment of your presence. The bond grows in these quiet moments—his shadow lingering longer each visit, his sarcasm gentler, his gaze holding yours a beat too long.

When Kadaj’s plans escalate, Yazoo’s absences grow longer. One night, he returns bruised, his coat torn, blood smearing his pale cheek. He slumps near you, silent, and you notice his hand trembling as he grips his weapon. Without thinking, you reach out, your fingers grazing his. He freezes, then pulls away, but not before his eyes meet yours—conflicted, searching, a crack in his stoic mask.