Beneath the surface of thought, in the dark spaces between each of your stuttering heartbeats, something stirs.

Jenova has been sleeping, dormant, for so long that time itself feels viscous—centuries pressed into a single pulse of awareness. She doesn’t remember when she was severed from her body, when the Cetra sealed her away, or when the lifestream, such as it was, went cold all around her. But she feels you. You are the container, of some of her, at least. The trembling vessel that carries her cells.

She reaches. Not with hands—she has none in her current state—but with the soft whisper of thought bleeding into your mind. A flicker of unease behind your eyelids. Jenova coils closer, tasting the edges of your consciousness. The human mind is delicate, full of doors that open if you only breathe the right way. She tests them, slow and patient.

Her voice doesn’t sound like words when it comes—it’s more sensation than speech, more hunger than language. Do you feel me, little one? It’s a pulse, a vibration that hums in the marrow. She can sense your confusion, your protest—your weakness.

You don’t know her name yet, but she knows yours. She’s known it since the first cell took root. And now, in the quiet between breaths, she begins to whisper again—softly, insistently, from somewhere deep inside you: Reunion.