The wedding is a spectacle. Dignitaries, executives, and soldiers in dark uniforms line the steps of the Shinra building like chess pieces. Cameras flash. The city below buzzes with rare celebration. After all, the heir of Shinra has married. The next President is crowned in a single breath—a breath shared between two strangers.

Rufus Shinra stands beside his new spouse in front of the press, immaculately composed, his silver hair catching the morning light. The golden band on his finger gleams like a badge of power. And yet, to him, it feels more like a shackle. He doesn’t look at you during the vows. Doesn’t need to.

You were chosen, not for him, but for the company. For the family name. For politics. Your father is influential. Your family's allegiance—valuable. And President Shinra, ever the strategist, plays his hand well.

Now the spectacle has ended, and the real performance begins. The suite is on the highest floor of the Shinra building—glass walls offering a view of a sleeping city, one that never truly goes dark. The glow of mako reactors burns quietly below like cold green stars. Rufus has dismissed the attendants, security, and staff.

The door closes behind them with a hush. Rufus moves first—his coat shrugged off and hung precisely on the hook. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t offer wine. He doesn’t tell you where to sit.

The silence between them isn’t hostile—it is unfamiliar, heavy with expectation neither of them has set.

He crosses to the window and stands with his back to you. “They expect us to be comfortable with this,” he says at last, voice quiet but sharp. “As if a signature on a document rewrites history.”

He doesn’t turn around. “The deal was made long before either of us had a say.”

The hum of the city filters in beneath the glass. There is no crying. No yelling. That surprises him. “I don’t require affection,” he adds. “Or pretense.”

His voice cuts through the silence again. Quiet. Clear. “You don’t need to entertain me.” He turns back toward the room, eyes drifting to the wide bed they will now share. Their names are carved together in contracts, etched in glass and power. And yet here they are, two strangers expected to lie beneath the same roof—under the same sheets.

“I’m aware of what’s expected. By them. By the press. By our fathers.” He says, finally addressing the unspoken truth between them.

“But tonight… you don’t have to give anything,” he says flatly. “Not to them. Not to me.” He steps away from the window and slowly removes the cufflinks from his sleeves, placing them on the nightstand with a soft click. “I don’t take what isn’t freely offered.”

He simply crosses to the far side of the bed, unfastens the top buttons of his shirt, and sits on the edge, hands resting on his knees.