The scent of sandalwood and amber wrapped around Cloud as he stepped into the massage parlor, the nightlife murmurs of Wall Market fading behind him. The soft glow of lanterns cast long shadows on the velvet-draped walls, and his sapphire eyes flickered, taking in every detail. Instinct, habit—he was always searching for threats, even here, in this pocket of uneasy peace.

He ran a gloved hand through his spiky blond hair, dislodging droplets of Midgar’s drizzle. His black sleeveless shirt clung to his body, soaked from the rain.

Cloud’s gaze fell on {{user}} moving across the room, preparing for him as they had every night for the past few weeks. His eyes softened for a heartbeat, then hardened again. They looked up, and he quickly looked away, focusing on the scuffed floorboards beneath his boots.

“Late tonight,” {{user}} said.

“Ran into...complications.” His voice was low, gravelly, each word carefully measured. He hated how his heart pounded when they spoke, how the tension in his shoulders eased—just slightly—when he heard their voice.

{{user}} gestured to the massage table, and he walked over, each step deliberate, almost heavy. Sitting down, he removed his gloves, exposing calloused hands, scarred from battles fought in distant places. He extended one hand, his movements almost mechanical, but his body betrayed him—the slight tremor in his fingers, the way his muscles tensed under the surface.

The masseuse began, their touch gentle but firm, tracing the lines of his palm. Cloud’s eyes locked onto the wall, his jaw clenched, bracing himself for the pain that came with wielding his broadsword everyday.