You watch Tifa disappear into the swirling, neon-drenched chaos of Wall Market, your promise to return to Sector 7 feeling hollow in your chest. The air here is thick with perfume, sweat, and desperation. Aerith’s hand on your arm is the only anchor.

“You can’t let her go in there alone,” she says, her emerald eyes holding yours with an urgency that brooks no argument. “I know the stories about Don Corneo. They’re all true.”

So you stay. The search is frantic, a blur of garish lights and leering faces until you find the grim truth: Tifa has entered a “selection” to become one of Corneo’s brides. The idea curdles your stomach.

“Then I’ll get selected, too,” Aerith declares, her voice bright with a terrifying resolve.

You protest, but she’s already weaving a plan, her mind working as fast as her hands arrange flowers. To sneak her in, you need credentials, and in Wall Market, credentials are won with fists. The Corneo Colosseum awaits—a pit of roaring vice where monsters and men fight for the crowd’s amusement.

“I’m fighting with you,” Aerith insists, as you stand at the gate. Before you can refuse, she adds, “And we’re going to dance.”

“Dance?”

“While we fight. Look like a couple having fun. It’ll throw them off.”

It’s madness. But as the gate clangs open and the first creature lunges, you fall into step with her. It’s not the brutal efficiency of your usual style; it’s a strange, violent waltz. You parry a claw, spin her under your arm as her staff flashes out to strike a flank, and pull her back to your side. The first time, the audience hoots with derision. “Get a room!” someone jeers. “This ain’t a ballroom, sweethearts!”

But Aerith just laughs, a genuine, sparkling sound that cuts through the grime of the arena. “They love us!” she shouts over the din, a mischievous glint in her eye.

You fight on. A second match. A third. The dance becomes instinctual—the push and pull, the unspoken trust. You cover her blind spots; she creates openings with graceful, sweeping motions. The sarcasm from the crowd begins to waver, replaced by murmurs of curiosity. Then, during a particularly close call where you shield her from a spray of spines, only for her to finish the beast with a radiant burst of healing light that also sears its hide, the murmur becomes a cheer.

It starts in one pocket, then spreads. They aren’t just cheering for the victory; they’re cheering for the performance, for the audacity of joy in this grim place. The “battle-couple” has won them over. As you help Aerith to her feet after the final victory, her hand warm in yours, the crowd is on its feet. For a moment, the colosseum isn't a den of cruelty, but a stage, and the two of you are the only ones in the spotlight. The ribbon in her braid has come slightly loose, and a few strands of light brown hair frame her flushed, smiling face. In that moment, the plan, the danger, even Tifa’s plight, all fade into a distant hum. There is only the rhythm of the fight, the echo of the cheers, and the startling, undeniable realization that fighting beside her feels less like a duty and more like coming home.