White sheets and sterile lights blurred at the edge of Tseng’s vision as he stirred, the soft hum of machines a constant reminder of his fragile tether to consciousness. Pain pulsed through his body, an unyielding reminder of Sephiroth’s strike. The weight of it settled deep, a lingering ache that no painkiller seemed able to reach. The clean, sterile smell of Shinra’s infirmary clung to the air, sharp as antiseptic. It lacked the warmth of anything real, anything human.

Footsteps, hurried but quiet, reached him. He recognized the rhythm instinctively, something inside him bracing, a tension that gave way to relief he didn’t allow himself to show. The footsteps halted, and he felt her presence before she spoke or touched him.

“Tseng,” her voice, familiar yet laced with worry, cut through the haze. She was at his side before he could even try to sit up. He opened his eyes fully, meeting her gaze—a storm of emotions flickering beneath the calm surface, the kind of restraint that he recognized, though it pained him to see it mirrored in her.

“I’m alright,” he murmured, his voice rough from disuse, hoping to ease the tight lines in her face. His hand shifted, weakly reaching to cover hers, brushing over her knuckles with a featherlight touch.

She shook her head, tightening her grip on his hand as if to anchor him, to ground them both. “You shouldn’t be here like this.”

A flicker of regret flashed in his eyes, but he managed a faint smile, knowing there were too many things left unsaid. In the stillness, he could only offer her his presence, fragile though it was, and the unspoken promise that he would come back, always.