Rude was never a fan of working solo. Since his first day with the Shinra Electric Power Company, the air to his left had almost always been occupied by the smell of cheap cigarettes and the frantic energy of Reno. They were a matched set—the hammer and the nail. That rhythm had only recently been broken, first by Reno’s recovery from a brutal set of injuries, and then by the grueling task of molding Elena into something resembling a Turk.

Rufus Shinra was not a man who tolerated blind spots. The name had appeared in the late President’s private ledgers with a frequency that bordered on obsession, yet the files were a vacuum of information. No gender, no history, no biometric data — just a name and a void. Rufus wanted that void filled.

Tracking them had been a gruelling exercise in patience. They weren’t hiding in the industrial smog of Midgar, but tucked away in a village so quiet the sound of a falling leaf felt like an event. In his sharp, obsidian suit and polished shades, Rude stood out like a predator in a petting zoo. He could feel the eyes of the locals on his back — the hushed whispers preceded him like a physical wave.

He was preparing to withdraw, his initial reconnaissance complete, when {{user}} stepped into his path. Protocol dictated he should vanish — Turks were supposed to lurk in the shadows. But as he looked at them, something in their gaze stayed his hand. There was no fear there, only a quiet, piercing curiosity that mirrored his own.

He adjusted his sunglasses, his voice a low, steady rumble that didn't betray a hint of hesitation.

"I'm not here to clean up a mess," he said, cutting through the tension before they could speak. "You aren't a target for disposal. But you are a person of interest. The President wants eyes on you... and for now, those eyes are mine."