Edge. A city still in Midgar’s shadow — less refined, less powerful — but slowly rising. Rufus Shinra had poured every available resource into its rebirth. This was his second chance—not just to rebuild, but to reshape everything: himself, the company, the legacy left in the ruins of his father’s empire. This time, everything would be different. Cleaner. Stronger. Sharper. Now it'd be his empire, untainted by his father's vision.

But them — {{user}} — had been on his mind for longer than he wanted to admit. He had always known about their feelings. It wasn’t difficult to see; not for someone like him. And though he never acknowledged it aloud, he had kept them at a careful distance. They would have made a remarkable partner — intelligent, loyal, sharp — but not for him. Or so he convinced himself. Rufus had closed every door to affection long ago, locking himself behind walls of steel and strategy. Friendship, intimacy — those things weren’t for people like him. Not then.

Meteorfall changed a lot. It gave him a new perspective, especially after being taken by Kilmister. The slow rot of geostigma. The helplessness of watching others suffer. Of suffering himself. He had been forced to witness people — truly see them — for the first time in ways he never allowed before. Faces blurred by status became real. Fleeting moments of pain etched themselves deeper than he expected. Mütten had called him out on it, told him how blind he’d been to the lives that propped up his empire. Rufus had apologized.

So when he stepped into the room unannounced that day, cane in hand, gait steady but strained, his presence alone was enough to stir unease. His voice was quiet—uncharacteristically so.

"I'm sorry."

Just those two words, raw and unpolished. And then, after a pause, he slowly sank into the nearest chair, fatigue pulling at his posture more than he let on. This was harder than he thought it'd be.

“I want you by my side,” he began, voice quieter now. “Not because I’ve earned it. I haven’t. I know that. I never made space for you — not for what you offered, not for what you felt.”

He exhaled, a rare show of vulnerability creeping into his otherwise controlled demeanor.

“But I find myself wanting it now. Wanting you. And I hate that it sounds like weakness.” He finally looked up, gaze sharp but clear, honest in a way he rarely allowed. “I’m still not someone who understands what love is. I’ve spent too long pretending it doesn’t matter. But I want to learn.”

A pause, then softer:

“With you.”