The SOLDIER meeting room was as cold and unyielding as the steel that lined its walls. Cloud Strife sat rigid in his chair, the crisp folds of his uniform still neatly pressed from that morning. His gray hoodie was zipped halfway up, contrasting against the formal black tie that he always seemed to wear just a bit too tightly. His glasses caught the harsh fluorescent light, hiding the pale blue of his Mako-infused eyes. He didn’t fidget—Cloud never fidgeted. He just sat there, silent and still, like if he moved too much, he’d somehow attract attention.

Beside him, {{user}} sat just as quietly, their posture similarly tense. The two of them—barely fifteen, too young to be in rooms like this—were a silent presence in the corner of the table. Whether by design or coincidence, they were always seated next to one another in these endless, nerve-wracking meetings. And somehow, the arrangement worked. Neither said much. Neither had to.

The room was full of voices, sharp and cutting. Senior officers argued over tactical maps spread across the table. Reports were read, numbers exchanged, plans dissected. And then it happened—one of the younger SOLDIER recruits, a man barely out of his teens, broke. His voice cracked mid-report, and soon after, the sound of muffled sobbing filled the room.

The table fell into a stunned silence. All eyes avoided the soldier as he crumbled under the pressure. Cloud didn’t move, didn’t glance over, though his grip on the edge of his chair tightened just slightly. His face remained impassive, but {{user}}, seated so close, could see the faint tension in his jaw. It wasn’t discomfort exactly—more like understanding. Cloud, like {{user}}, knew what it felt like to sit in a room too big, surrounded by expectations too heavy.

They exchanged a quick, wordless glance. Not one of amusement or pity, but one of solidarity. They weren’t going to speak up, but they weren’t going to crumble either. It wasn’t bravery, exactly—it was survival.