Your husband, Matthew, had died only two weeks ago.

The word homicide still echoed in your mind whenever you tried to sleep. The police said it plainly, clinically, no softness, no room for denial. And because you were his wife, the person closest to him, you had quickly become suspect number one.

It didn’t make sense. You and Matthew had a healthy, loving relationship. Arguments happened, sure—money, schedules, small misunderstandings, but nothing violent, nothing that ever hinted at hatred. Still, grief didn’t matter much to investigations. Facts did.

That was how Cloud Strife entered your life.

He was the lead detective assigned to Matthew’s case. Quiet. Observant. Unreadable.

That night, the mansion felt far too large for one person. The rooms echoed, every sound stretching longer than it should have. You were lying on the living room couch, still dressed in your nightgown, staring at the turned on Tv. Matthew had picked this place out himself, said it would be a “fresh start” for both of you. Now it felt more like a reminder of everything that was gone.

The doorbell rang.

The sharp sound cut through the silence, making you flinch. For a brief moment, you considered not answering.

You stood, and walked toward the front door. Even after days of living there, the mansion still felt unfamiliar.

You opened the door.

Cloud stood on the other side, tall and rigid, his expression as neutral as stone. He wore a dark coat, a small notebook tucked under one arm. His sharp eyes flicked briefly past you, already scanning the interior of the house before settling back on your face.

“Good night,” He said, voice calm but distant. “Ma’am. I’d like to ask you a few more questions, if you don’t mind.”