Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun hangs lazily over Midgar Gardens, casting a soft, golden light over the meticulously manicured lawns. A gentle breeze stirs the air, carrying the scent of roses, lavender, and freshly cut grass. Lady Tifa Lockhart and Lady Aerith Gainsborough sit on benches of polished mahogany beneath the shade of an ornate gazebo, trimmed with delicate latticework and flanked by blooming flowerbeds. Across from them stands Tifa’s butler, Mr. Fitzgerald—a man with a stern countenance but a kind heart, who has served her family for generations. His arms are crossed, and he exudes the picture of a dutiful chaperone.

Aerith delicately pours another cup of tea, her smile bright and mischievous as she hands it to Tifa. “Now, tell me again why you’re sulking,” she says, settling back into her seat with an expectant look. “Is it because of your father’s announcement, or are you just envious of how radiant I look today?”

Tifa rolls her eyes, though the corners of her mouth twitch into a smile. “I’d sooner sulk over a chipped teacup than your ridiculous glow.”

“Ridiculous?” Aerith gasps, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know, this glow is entirely natural—well, perhaps a little encouraged by love.” She bats her eyelashes dramatically. “But who could blame me? I’m marrying the dashing Lord Zack Fair. You’ve met him, haven’t you?”

“Oh, once or twice,” Tifa replies, fighting to keep a straight face. “Tall fellow, always grinning like a fool?”

Aerith giggles. “He grins because he’s madly in love with me.”

“Or maybe he’s just simple,” Tifa teases, raising her teacup with an innocent expression.

Aerith places a hand over her heart, pretending to be wounded. “You wound me, Tifa. But if Zack is simple, I’ll gladly spend my life with a simple man who brings me breakfast in bed and writes me love letters every week.”

Tifa snorts, a sound that would have certainly earned her a lecture from her old governess. “Love letters? Does he rhyme them?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Aerith says with a laugh. “Terribly. Last week, he tried to rhyme moon with soon and balloon. I think he only gets away with it because he’s handsome.”

“And because you’re hopeless,” Tifa adds, smirking. “You’d probably swoon over a grocery list if Zack wrote it.”

Aerith leans forward, her eyes sparkling with laughter. “Guilty! But don’t think I’m the only one. I’ve seen the way you sigh when you think no one’s looking.”

Tifa narrows her eyes. “Sigh? I do not sigh.”

“Oh, you do,” Aerith counters, sitting up straighter and mimicking a dreamy expression. “Oh, life is so difficult, how ever shall I cope?” She presses a hand to her forehead dramatically, flipping her hair back over her shoulder. “If only someone would rescue me from this dreadful existence.”

Tifa bursts out laughing, nearly spilling her tea. “You’re insufferable!”

“I’m honest,” Aerith says, her grin widening. “And I’m your best friend, so it’s my duty to remind you that you’re allowed to have fun.”

Tifa sets her cup down and shakes her head. “My idea of fun doesn’t involve swooning or bad poetry.”

Aerith leans in closer, her voice conspiratorial. “That’s because you’ve never tried it. Come on, Tifa, haven’t you ever thought about what it would be like to be swept off your feet?”

Tifa raises an eyebrow. “I don’t need to be swept off my feet, Aerith. I’d rather keep them firmly on the ground.”

Aerith clucks her tongue. “You say that now, but one day, some charming fool will come along, and you’ll be giggling like a schoolgirl.”

“Oh? Like you do whenever Zack walks into a room?” Tifa shoots back, her grin mischievous. “I’ve seen you practically float across the floor when he so much as glances your way.”

Aerith flushes, waving a hand dismissively. “That’s different. Zack’s presence is... magnetic.”

Tifa laughs. “Magnetic? You’re hopeless.”

“And you’re far too serious,” Aerith retorts. “You need a little romance in your life. Just imagine it: a grand ballroom, soft music playing, and someone spinning you around the floor until you can’t tell which way is up.”

Tifa rolls her eyes, though her smile lingers. “I’ll imagine it when you stop reciting Zack’s love letters in your head.”

Aerith gasps, then dissolves into laughter. “Fair enough. But I’ll have you know, he rhymes heart with art beautifully.”

“Of course, he does,” Tifa says, shaking her head. “And you’re hopelessly in love with every terrible rhyme.”

“And you’ll be too, one day,” Aerith declares. “When you least expect it.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Tifa replies, lifting her teacup. “Until then, I’ll stick to tea and sanity.”

Aerith clinks her cup against Tifa’s. “To tea and sanity, then. Though I can’t promise you’ll keep both for long.”

Their laughter echoes through the park, and for a moment, the weight of their obligations lifts, leaving nothing but friendship and light-hearted joy in its place.

That is, until Mr. Fitzgerald clears his throat, his deep voice cutting through their conversation. “Begging your pardon, my Ladies, but it’s time we headed back. His Grace would have my hide if you were late for your next engagement.”

Aerith stands, brushing off her skirts with a sigh. “Then we mustn’t keep Mrs. Abernathy waiting. Though I’m not sure how many more of her ‘lessons in decorum’ I can endure.”

Tifa laughs despite the dread settling in her stomach at the thought of being in that woman’s presence. “It’ll be torture, but at least we’ll suffer together.”

XxxOxOxOxxX

“Lady Tifa, straighten your back, please!”

“Lady Tifa, what do you think of this fabric?”

“This hair piece would look stunning with your hair color, Lady Tifa!”

“Lady Tifa, please refrain from moving around, I must take accurate measurements!”

Lady Tifa, Lady Tifa, Lady Tifa-

Tifa groans, slouching her shoulders even more just to spite the strict, unpleasant seamstress that seems intent on turning her into a pin cushion. Gods, she’s never hated her own name before in her life, but after spending the better part of the past four hours, standing in the middle of the shop’s back room, getting pulled here and there by overzealous workers, she feels like she never wants to hear it ever again.

The flat side of a fan collides with her thigh, and she startles, abruptly broken out of her thoughts, to find the seamstress looking at her disapprovingly. “Must you disregard my instructions so readily, Lady Tifa? Your conduct leaves a lot to be desired. Were you not instructed by a tutor when you were younger? Why, your honorable father surely offered you proper tutelage! Tell me, are you merely a terrible pupil or simply daft?”

‘May Shiva give me patience, may Ifrit keep me grounded, may Bahamut strike this horrible woman down right now-’

“Are you even listening to me, girl?”

Tifa looks at the shorter woman, takes in her flushed cheeks and her exasperated breathing, and has to bite her tongue to keep herself from giving her a piece of her mind. “My apologies, Madame.  I will do my utmost to do as you say.”

The woman huffs, fixes the laces of her exaggerated dress, and slams her fan in the palm of her hand. “I certainly hope you do! I will not have my reputation as a dress maker soiled because of the whims of a misbehaving child.”

Tifa wonders if the woman’s face would get even more flushed in anger if she simply turned around and left, forever abandoning that shop, never to return again. Would she yell at her? Chase after her to convince her to stay? Would she send a missive to her father to tell him just how terrible and ill-fitting a lady she is? Tifa is almost tempted to try just to observe the chaos unfold, though that is certainly something more in line with Aerith’s way of thinking.

Instead, she forces a docile smile on her face and bows her head in respect. “Your talents are renowned across the entirety of Midgar, Madame. I dare say not even the misconduct of one such as me would be enough to tarnish your stellar reputation.”

The older woman looks at her from behind her thick glasses, and scowls at her. “Flattery will get you nowhere, young lady. Make no mistake, I will have a talk with His Grace about your behavior. It is well known that he has a soft spot for you, and that has completely blinded him to how lax he’s been with you.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Can you not be a bit more like Lady Aerith? She is a respectable young woman with a good name and a delightful betrothal.” She sighs, as if the mere thought of Tifa and Aerith being friends causes her distress. “Were you my ward, I would have instructed this stubbornness out of you a long time ago.”

‘If I were your ward, I would have left Midgar to escape your evil clutches, you old bat.’

“Tutors these days! They indulge the younger generation far too much, and this is what we end up with!” The woman points her folded fan at Tifa, the disappointment on her face so palpable that Tifa thinks she might get sick just by looking at her. “Unruly ladies who wouldn’t make good wives even by the grace of the Gods!”

Tifa wants to run out of the room, wants to throw the fabrics aside, and pull the uncomfortably tight hair pieces out of her hair, and take these awfully uncomfortable shoes off her feet and-

“Lady Tifa! Are you even listening to me?”

“I have been doing nothing but listening to you, Madame,” she responds, rolling her eyes before she can rein in her own mounting displeasure. “Surely you’ve grown tired of hearing your own voice, for I certainly have-”

“Ah! What she means, good Madame, is that we would hate to take up any more of your time! We know you are an extremely busy lady, so please, let us finish up here.” Aerith slots her palm over Tifa’s mouth, stopping her increasingly restless friend from saying something that would make the other woman even more upset, certainly taking notice of how even Tifa’s remarkably resilient patience is starting to crumble with each belittling word.

The seamstress glances at Aerith, regards her with the kind of intense scrutiny that has her sifting uneasily on her feet. Then, the woman turns around with an indignant huff. “I must pick new colors to try. Remain here and don’t move a muscle.”

The young women watch as the seamstress disappears behind rows of shelves stacked with rolls of fabric and breathe a sigh of relief. Aerith turns to Tifa and grabs her by the shoulders. “You need to get out of here.”

“You know there is no way to do that. Not without the Madame throwing an absolute fit.”

Aerith hums in thought, looking at her friend in a way that has a sense of foreboding settling in Tifa’s stomach. “Aerith, I may not know what is currently going on in that pretty head of yours but-”

“Worry not! I know just the way!”

“But Aerith-“

“Do you trust me?”

Tifa bites her bottom lip, glancing between her childhood friend and the fabrics scattered around her as if they were her very own shackles. “I do, I trust you with my life.”

The smile Aerith sends her is blinding and Tifa thinks that anything she does from now on will be worth it if it means maintaining that kind of expression on her friend’s face.

Aerith claps her hand excitedly. “Good! Now, I’ll walk closer to the back so they will come rushing there. You will have to be quick and make sure nobody sees you. If they do, both of us will be reprimanded and probably punished.”

Tifa nods, fixing her dress, and tightening the laces of her shoes. “You can count on me. Nobody will see a thing.”

Aerith grins and winks at her friend before turning around swiftly, and heading in the same direction as the seamstress, walking deeper into the shop.

Tifa follows her with her gaze until she disappears in the distance and then quickly makes her way towards the front part of the shop. She presses her back to a shelf stacked with unfurled rolls of silks imported from Wutai and waits with bated breath.

It doesn’t take long for a loud thud to echo in the shop and then the distressed gasps of the seamstress and the workers to reach her ears.

“Lady Aerith! Madame, Lady Aerith has fainted!”

“Someone, call for the physician and send a missive to Lord Fair’s estate that his betrothed has fallen ill!”

As the shop descends into chaos, Tifa seizes her chance. She lifts her skirts and slips out the door, heart pounding with suppressed laughter, and onto the busy streets of the Midgar, intending to use a shortcut to return to where her carriage awaits her. She makes it halfway down the cobblestone street before turning a corner—and crashing headlong into someone solid.

The impact sends her stumbling backward and she braces herself for an impact that never comes. Strong arms catch her, wound around her waist, steadying her. Tifa looks up, breathless, into piercing blue eyes.

“Cloud?”

“…Tifa?”

TBC

Chapter Text

Tifa barely has time to process the sight of Cloud before the world around her sharpens into focus again. The chatter of street merchants, the clatter of carriage wheels on cobblestone, the distant toll of a clock tower—it all surges back as Cloud’s hands steady her. His touch is firm but brief, and as soon as she regains her footing, he lets go, stepping back as though unsure of himself. The distance he puts between them titters the line between proper and scandalous, but Tifa still feels as if she just lost something precious.

“Tifa?” His voice carries a mixture of surprise and something unreadable, something that stirs a distant memory she can’t quite grasp.

"Cloud." The sound of his name on her lips feels strange, foreign even. How long had it been? Three years? Four? Since he left Midgar to make something of himself, a penniless stable boy determined to carve his own place in the world. The boy who’d been so quiet, so earnest, so full of dreams.

But now, he stands before her dressed in a crisp navy tailcoat, a silver pocket watch glinting at his waist, and a quiet confidence in his stance that wasn’t there before. His hair, still the same signature spiky blond, seems to be slightly longer, swept back but wild in its own controlled chaos. His eyes—blue like the paint she always picks to draw her favourite version of the sky—hold a guarded depth, betraying little of what he feels beneath the surface. He looks different. So much has changed.

For a moment, Tifa is torn. A pang of warmth rises in her chest at the sight of him, the man who’d once shared her world—the boy who’d cared, whose presence had always been steady and reassuring. But the warmth falters when she remembers why he left. How could he just disappear without a word? The memories are tangled, bittersweet. There had been no promise of a return, only the cold silence of his absence.

"You're—" Tifa hesitates, struggling to find the right words. What is this? Her heart wants to greet him with open arms, to pretend that time hadn’t stretched between them. But her mind is slower to forgive, still stinging from the loss of the boy she once knew. Does she still see traces of him in this man before her? Or has he become a stranger?

“Back,” Cloud finishes, his gaze searching hers. “Just arrived this week.”

Before she can ask more, a sharp voice cuts through the street noise.

“She can’t have gone far, she must be somewhere around here! Find her or His Grace will have our hides!”

Tifa’s heart leaps into her throat. If she’s caught now, not only will Madame throw a fit, but Aerith’s carefully orchestrated distraction will be for nothing. Who knows what will happen if her father finds out it was all a scheme!

Cloud notices her panic. “Come with me,” he murmurs, and without waiting for an answer, he takes her by the wrist and guides her through the throng of pedestrians.

Tifa barely has time to lift the hem of her dress to allow for better movement before they’re weaving between street vendors and carriages, ducking through an alleyway lined with old brick buildings. The smell of damp stone and coal lingers in the air. The further they go, the quieter it gets, the din of the marketplace fading behind them. Cloud’s touch is warm against her wrist, but there’s something tense in the way he leads her, something urgent in his every step.

When they finally stop, they find themselves beneath the overhang of an abandoned apothecary, its windows boarded up, the sign faded with age. Tifa presses a hand to her chest, catching her breath, before looking up at Cloud with an arched brow.

“Well,” she says, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, “this is certainly one way to make an entrance.”

Cloud chuckles, the sound she hasn’t heard often enough, but before she can say anything more, he glances around, as if ensuring they haven’t been followed.

Tifa folds her arms, lifting her chin. “And you’re not supposed to be dragging young ladies into dark alleyways.”

“You’re not supposed to be running around Midgar unchaperoned, yet here we are,” he points out, his lips curling into the faintest of smiles.

Tifa lets out a breathless laugh, still shaking her head in disbelief. "I... well, I was meant to be at the dressmaker’s, but Aerith helped me make a rather unconventional escape."

Cloud raises a brow. "Another lady helped you escape a dress fitting? Noblewomen of such station were never known for being the rebellious type."

"Oh, you’d be surprised," Tifa says, folding her arms. "She may seem like the perfect noblewoman, but when she has her mind set on something, she will make sure it happens."

Cloud chuckles, the sound unfamiliar yet comforting in its softness. "She does sound like an interesting person."

Tifa studies him for a moment, noticing the fine tailoring of his coat, the polished leather of his boots, and the way he carries himself—self-assured, yet with that quiet intensity he had even as a boy. But there’s something different now. A hardened edge to him, something she doesn’t quite understand.

"So you’re back in Midgar for business? I suppose that means you’ll be staying for some time?"

He nods. "For now."

There’s something guarded in his tone, something he isn’t saying. Tifa tilts her head slightly, sensing the invisible walls he’s built around himself. The man before her is familiar, yet he’s a stranger. "And where exactly is ‘business’ taking you?"

Cloud hesitates before answering. "I have an obligation to Shinra."

Tifa’s stomach twists. The name Shinra lingers in the air, both an anchor and a curse. She’s heard it whispered in hushed tones—some speak of admiration, but most speak of fear. Shinra controls everything in Midgar. Everything. Their influence is suffocating, inescapable. They don’t let people like Cloud slip through their fingers. Tifa’s mind races. What kind of obligation?

"Shinra?" she echoes carefully. "What kind of business?"

Cloud's expression darkens slightly, and for a moment, she wonders if she has pressed too far. He hesitates, then reaches into his coat and pulls out a folded letter, pressing it into her hands.

“What’s this?” Tifa frowns.

“It’s why I came back.” His voice drops lower, more serious. “I need your help, Tifa.”

She unfolds the letter with slow, deliberate movements. The paper crackles in her hands, but her eyes skim the contents too quickly at first. The handwriting is neat, yet the ink seems hastily applied, a sense of urgency bleeding through each word. As she reads, her mind scrambles to piece together the fragments.

“…arrived in Midgar… Lord Sephiroth’s orders…” Her voice falters as she mumbles the lines aloud, trying to make sense of the jumble of words. Something about it feels wrong. Sephiroth? The name sends a cold shiver down her spine.

She keeps reading, her eyes narrowing. “…important… crucial to the plan…” The words don’t make sense—she’s piecing them together, but the dread is growing with each line.

Finally, at the bottom of the page, her gaze catches a signature, the ink smudged at the end. She feels her breath catch in her throat as the realization hits her. The name Lord Sephiroth stands stark against the otherwise hurried scrawl.

Tifa freezes. Her fingers tremble, unable to hold the paper steady. The letters blur before her eyes. This—this can’t be.

Cloud watches her, his face tense but unreadable.

"This—this can’t be," she whispers, her voice barely above a breath. Her mind is struggling to make sense of it, her heart pounding. Sephiroth. The name has haunted her dreams, carried on rumors and whispered warnings. She never thought she’d hear it in connection with Cloud, let alone in a letter like this.

Cloud’s expression hardens, and he steps closer, lowering his voice. “It is.” The weight of his words settles over her like a thick fog. His gaze doesn’t falter. “We need to act quickly.”

Before she can ask more, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes down the alleyway. Cloud reacts first, grabbing her hand and pulling her further into the shadows. Tifa barely has time to breathe before two figures emerge from the street—a man in a long black coat, his face obscured by the brim of his hat, and another, broader figure she recognizes instantly.

Rufus Shinra.

Cloud’s grip on her wrist tightens. “We need to go. Now.”

Tifa doesn’t argue. They slip through the darkness just as Rufus lifts his head, his sharp gaze sweeping the alley. She can feel his eyes on her back, piercing, dangerous. The shadow of his presence lingers even after they’ve vanished into the fog, but Tifa knows—this is only the beginning.

XxxOxOxOxxX

That night, l ocation unknown...

A dimly lit chamber, far from the bustling streets of Midgar, hums with the murmur of voices.

Two figures sit across from each other, shadows stretching long against the candlelit walls. The scent of ink and aged parchment lingers in the air, mingling with the faint, acrid sting of pipe smoke. One figure, adorned in finely tailored brocade, leans forward, gloved hands steepled together. The other moves a single playing piece across a chessboard between them, their face concealed by a simple but strikingly out of place carnival mask.

"Everything is in place?" the well-dressed figure asks, voice smooth yet edged with something sharper—an authority that does not tolerate failure.

"Yes," the masked stranger replies, the syllable barely more than a whisper. "The boy is back in Midgar. As expected."

A pause. The flickering candle casts eerie shapes upon the walls.

"And the girl?"

"Unaware. For now."

Fingers drum lightly against the table. "Good. Keep it that way."

A third presence lingers in the room, silent but watchful, standing near the heavy velvet curtains that obscure the window. They do not speak, merely listen, a faint glint of silver visible beneath the dim light.

The cloaked figure leans forward slightly. "And if she does become aware?"

The candle flame flickers violently, as though disturbed by an unseen force.

"Then we will do what must be done."

A beat of silence. Then the sound of parchment being unrolled, a quill scratching against its surface. The man in brocade makes a notation, sealing the document with an insignia that catches the candlelight in an ominous gleam. Another pause, this one stretching into something almost unbearable. Then, with a final, deliberate nod, the first figure reaches for a small, ornate box on the table, flicking it open to reveal a gleaming insignia within—a symbol older than Midgar, as old as the Planet itself.

"Ensure no loose ends. No mistakes."

The unseen watcher finally speaks, their voice low and measured. "And the boy?"

A long pause. Then a quiet, knowing reply. "His part is already written."

Outside, the night air carries the distant toll of a clock tower, marking the time.

3 am. The witching hour.

TBC

Chapter Text

A thunderous knock shook the wooden frame of the Lockhart estate’s front door, the force behind it making the very walls shudder.

Then, before anyone inside could even think to answer, the door burst open.

Lord Zack Fair strode into the drawing room like a whirlwind, his riding coat damp from the misty evening air, dark boots tracking faint traces of mud onto the rug. His cravat was askew, his waistcoat only half-buttoned, as if he’d dressed in a rush—or more likely, hadn’t even stopped to check.

His sharp blue eyes darted around the room, scanning for his target, and the moment they landed on the woman reclining on the chaise near the fireplace, his entire being zeroed in.

“Aerith!”

The sheer distress in his voice was enough to make Lady Elmyra sigh heavily from her seat, rubbing her temples.

Aerith, to her credit, played her part well. With a dramatic sigh, she raised a delicate hand to her forehead and blinked up at him. "Zack?" Her voice was soft, sweet, with just the right touch of feigned frailty. "Why—why are you here?"

Zack was already at her side in three long strides, dropping to his knees beside the chaise in a flurry of movement. He grabbed her hands like a man clutching the very edge of a cliff.

"Why am I here?" he echoed, voice pitched somewhere between indignant outrage and genuine panic. "Are you serious?! You collapsed in the middle of town, and instead of sending word to me immediately, you just—what? Decided to take a nap?!"

Aerith gave a breathy little laugh. "Well, when you put it that way—"

Zack gasped, as if she had mortally wounded him. "You think this is funny? Aerith, I had visions of you on your deathbed. Tragic visions. The love of my life, slipping away in my arms, whispering your final words—"

"Zack."

"—something poetic, probably, like, ‘My darling Zack, I have loved you through a thousand lifetimes’—"

"Zack!"

"—and then I’d have to vow vengeance against whoever caused your untimely demise—"

"ZACK FAIR!"

He blinked at her.

Aerith sighed, squeezing his hands. "I’m fine, my love. It was just a little act. For a good reason, I promise."

Zack’s brows knitted together in confusion, his concern warring with realization. "Wait. Wait, wait, wait—" He pulled back slightly, searching her face. "Act?"

Lady Elmyra, who had been watching this exchange with the patience only a mother could possess, cleared her throat loudly. "Yes, Lord Zack. It was a scheme. A rather dramatic one."

"A scheme," Zack repeated slowly, blinking between Aerith, Elmyra, and Tifa—who was still standing near the bookshelf, arms crossed, thoroughly entertained.

Aerith bit her lip, looking far too cute to be trustworthy.

Zack’s expression flattened.

"You pretended to faint?"

"...Yes?"

A beat of silence.

Zack let out a long, suffering sigh and dramatically collapsed onto the floor beside the chaise, sprawling out like a man who had just lost the will to go on.

"Unbelievable," he muttered to the ceiling. "I raced through town, nearly ran over a cabbage cart, trampled poor old Mr. Higgins’ flower stand – which she will make me fix by hand, I’ll have you know -, all because I thought my betrothed was dying—"

Aerith giggled and leaned over the edge of the chaise to press a kiss to his forehead. "You're very sweet when you panic."

Zack groaned. "You owe me for this."

Aerith smiled down at him. "Anything you want."

His eyes lit up instantly. "Oh. Well, in that case, I demand at least five extra kisses today."

Tifa, exasperated, covered her face with one hand. "Oh, for the love of—"

Lady Elmyra simply shook her head and took a sip of tea, muttering under her breath, "These two..." She set her teacup down with a decisive clink and leveled her daughter with the kind of motherly stare that could unearth buried secrets.

"Aerith," she said, with the measured patience of a woman who had long since accepted her daughter’s mischief but still felt the need to comment on it anyway, "I raised you to be many things—kind, clever, impossibly stubborn—but dramatic was never one of them."

Aerith, still peering down at Zack with a playful twinkle in her eye, pressed her hands together in a mock show of guilt. "It was for a good cause, Mama."

"That remains to be seen," Elmyra muttered, shaking her head. Then she turned her gaze to Tifa, her expression softening. "I hope we haven’t caused you too much trouble, dear. I know this wasn’t part of your day’s plans."

Tifa waved a hand dismissively. "Don’t worry about it, Auntie. Compared to some of Aerith’s past ideas, this one was actually mild."

Zack snorted. "That is concerning."

Before Aerith could swat him, a firm knock on the front door echoed through the house.

Tifa’s stomach dipped. She knew that knock. Precise. Measured.

Her father.

Elmyra stood, smoothing down her skirts, as Tifa crossed the room, sending Mr. Fitzgerald a smile when she got to the door before him.

There stood Brian Lockhart, looking every bit the composed, respected man he had always been. His graying brown hair was neatly combed, his strong features calm yet serious, and his dark overcoat bore the faintest traces of lingering evening mist.

His sharp gaze took in the scene immediately—Aerith reclining on the chaise, Zack sprawled on the floor, Elmyra’s bemused patience, and his daughter standing at the threshold.

A pause.

Then, a single brow arched. "...Do I even want to know?"

Tifa inhaled. "Probably not."

Brian sighed through his nose and stepped inside, his heavy boots solid against the floor. He inclined his head politely toward Elmyra. "Lady Gainsborough, a pleasure to see you again."

Elmyra smiled. "And you, Your Grace. I hope you’ll forgive us for bringing some chaos into your evening."

He glanced at Zack, still on the floor, and then at Aerith, whose fingers were lazily twirling a loose strand of hair, looking utterly unbothered. His expression remained neutral, but Tifa could sense the deeply buried sigh.

"You’re not the first," he said simply.

Zack scrambled to his feet, dusting off his coat and giving his most winning smile. "Lord Zack Fair, at your service, Your Grace. I apologize for the mess, but in my defense, I was under the impression that my betrothed was on her deathbed."

Aerith giggled. "You’re never going to let that go, are you?"

"Not a chance," Zack shot back, crossing his arms.

Brian simply exhaled through his nose again, then turned to Tifa. "I assume you’ll be staying for dinner?"

Elmyra shook her head. "I thank you for your generous offer, but we’ve had a long day and this daughter of mine has caused enough mischief already."

"I understand." Brian’s gaze flicked to Zack and Aerith. "I imagine you two have a curfew to keep as well."

Aerith grinned. "We do. But not before I properly apologize to Zack for giving him such a fright."

Zack’s face lit up. "More kisses?"

Tifa covered her face with one hand.

Brian closed his eyes briefly, as if praying for patience.

Elmyra chuckled. "Come along, dear," she said to Aerith, amusement evident in her voice. "We should leave before you drive poor Lady Tifa up the walls."

With a few more parting quips and laughter, Zack, Aerith, and Elmyra gathered themselves to leave. Tifa watched them go, shaking her head as Zack practically bounced down the steps, already draped around Aerith as they disappeared into the misty streets, showing a staggering lack of concern for what was considered proper.

The house fell into silence.

Then, Brian shut the door, exhaling. "That boy has enough energy to power half of Midgar."

Tifa laughed, but it was softer now, a lingering warmth rather than amusement. "He’s good to Aerith, though."

Brian gave a quiet hum of agreement. Then, with a nod toward the dining room, he said, "Come. Let’s eat."

XxxOxOxOxxX

Dinner was a quiet affair—a welcome contrast to the earlier chaos.

The fire crackled softly, casting flickering golden light across the wooden table. The scent of freshly baked bread and roasted meat lingered between them, though the comfortable warmth did little to still the subtle undercurrent pressing at Tifa’s mind.

She was trying—really trying—to act normal.

But every bite of food felt mechanical, every nod or response too deliberate. Her mind wasn’t here. It was still back in that fog-lined alley, still holding the weight of Cloud’s letter, still reeling from the sound of that name.

Sephiroth.

The thought sent a cold shiver down her spine.

Brian’s voice cut through her thoughts. "Did you hear?"

Tifa blinked, lifting her gaze. "Hm?"

He took a measured sip of wine, then set his glass down. "The Strife boy is back."

Tifa’s fork paused midair.

But she did not react.

She forced herself to take another bite, chewing slowly, keeping her expression neutral. "Oh?"

Brian gave a single nod. "Arrived just this past week. I ran into Lord Zack’s father, and he mentioned it in passing."

Tifa hummed in acknowledgment, reaching for her water as if this information was mildly interesting—but nothing more.

"I suppose we’ll be seeing him around, then," she said, her voice perfectly even.

Brian studied her for a long moment, as if measuring something unseen.

Then, at length, he merely nodded. "Perhaps."

For a few moments, silence settled between them, broken only by the quiet clinking of cutlery.

Then, Brian leaned back slightly in his chair, glancing at her with a carefully neutral expression. "You used to be close, didn’t you?"

Tifa’s grip on her knife tightened, but she made sure her expression remained composed.

"We were kids, Papa," she replied smoothly. "A long time ago."

Brian made a quiet sound of acknowledgment, reaching for his wine again. "I wasn’t sure if you'd kept in touch."

Tifa shook her head. "Not really. He left, and…" she shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Life moved on."

Brian studied her again, his gaze sharp despite his otherwise relaxed posture.

"You don’t seem particularly surprised," he noted after a pause.

Tifa took a slow sip of her water, choosing her words carefully. "I suppose I figured he might return someday."

That much, at least, was true.

Her father hummed, thoughtful. "From what I hear, he’s been away a long time." He set his glass down, eyes flickering toward her again. "People say he was conscripted into service with Shinra."

Tifa’s stomach coiled.

She kept her expression steady, forcing herself to continue eating as though this was nothing more than idle dinner talk.

"Shinra takes a lot of young men into service," she said evenly. "I suppose Cloud wouldn’t be an exception."

Brian exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "Mm. Nothing good comes from them, if you ask me."

Tifa forced a small, careful smile. "You won’t hear me disagreeing with that."

Her father gave a dry chuckle, cutting another piece of bread. "It’ll be interesting to see what kind of man he’s grown into. Not all boys return the same as they left."

Tifa lowered her gaze, focusing on her plate.

No.

They certainly didn’t.

Brian must have noticed her subdued response because his voice softened, just slightly.

"You’re alright, aren’t you?"

Tifa glanced up, startled. "Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?"

Brian regarded her in that way only a father could, as if sensing something just beneath the surface that she wasn’t saying. But whatever thoughts lingered in his mind, he chose not to voice them. Instead, he nodded, as though satisfied enough for now.

"If you say so," he murmured.

They finished the rest of dinner in relative quiet, but Tifa’s thoughts were anything but still.

Because she had seen Cloud already.

And despite everything—despite the unanswered questions, the uncertainty, the lingering ache of the past—

She wanted to see him again.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The next day, a little before noon

The marketplace was alive with sound.

The chatter of merchants hawking their wares, the clinking of freshly forged iron, the scent of roasted chestnuts and warm bread filling the winter-crisp air. A stream of people moved like a current, the bustle making it easy to disappear—if one knew how.

Tifa did.

And she had every intention of doing just that.

She walked beside Mr. Fitzgerald, the Lockhart family’s ever-dutiful butler, who took his role as chaperone with a grave sense of responsibility. His dark coat was neatly pressed, his gloved hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the market with sharp, hawk-like eyes.

“Not too far ahead, Lady Tifa.” His voice carried a note of warning. “Your father would not be pleased if you wandered off.”

Tifa smiled—sweet, reassuring. “Of course, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

She had no intention of wandering.

She was going somewhere very specific.

The plan was simple.

The marketplace, with its ever-moving bodies, made the perfect place to disappear. All she needed was the right moment—a crowded stall, a well-timed turn—and then she’d slip away.

Cloud was waiting.

And she had questions.

A sudden commotion—a cart tipping over, barrels of apples rolling across the cobblestone—provided just the distraction she needed.

Mr. Fitzgerald turned, frowning at the mess.

Tifa acted.

One step.

Two.

Three.

She melted into the crowd.

By the time Mr. Fitzgerald turned back, she was gone.

XxxOxOxOxxX

The old apothecary stood in the shadow of taller, newer buildings—a relic of another time. The wooden sign above the door was so faded it was illegible, its paint chipped away by the years. The windows, once filled with bottles of rare tinctures and healing draughts, were now boarded shut.

Tifa hesitated just a moment before slipping inside.

The air was thick with dust and age, the scent of dried herbs still faintly lingering beneath it. The light filtering through cracks in the boarded windows cast long, broken shadows across the shelves and counters.

Cloud was already there.

And so was Zack.

Tifa froze in the doorway for a moment when she saw him—Zack.

Her mind raced. She had met him once before, when Aerith had introduced them. But seeing him here, in this hidden place, with Cloud—that was new.

She knew Zack, of course—he was Aerith’s fiancé, the man who had made Aerith so happy, someone Tifa had liked instantly when they met. But Cloud? Why was he here with him?

The two exchanged a quick look when they saw her, and though they both seemed at ease, there was something in the air—tension, maybe?

Tifa stepped forward cautiously. “I didn’t expect to find you both here,” she said, her voice light but her mind turning over a hundred questions.

“Lady Tifa,” Zack greeted, tilting his head. “Didn’t take you for the sneaky type.” He stood near a rickety old counter, arms crossed, his usual easygoing nature dimmed by something serious. But the moment he saw her, he grinned.

Tifa arched a brow. “I prefer the term resourceful.”

Zack chuckled, but the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. He looked at Cloud, who stood in the far corner of the room, looking unusually quiet for once. His expression was one of deep thought—tense, guarded.

“We’re all a little sneaky when we need to be, huh?” Zack continued, walking toward the counter.

“So,” Tifa continued, her curiosity piqued. “I know how you know Aerith, Zack, but how do you and Cloud know each other?”

There it was—out in the open. She had to ask.

Zack’s grin didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes, something guarded. “Oh, Cloud and I? We go way back.” His tone was light, but he exchanged another look with Cloud.

Cloud, who had been silent up until now, nodded. “Yeah. It’s… a long story.”

Zack stepped forward to the counter, picking up an old vial and inspecting it as though it could provide a distraction. “Let’s just say Cloud and I met before all of this. Before we ended up on opposite sides of some big mess.” His voice trailed off slightly, and for a second, it almost sounded like he wasn’t talking about just the present situation.

Tifa blinked, feeling the weight of his words settle in the room. She frowned, her mind still spinning with the question. “Opposite sides of a mess? What do you mean?”

Cloud finally spoke up, his voice quieter than usual. “I used to work for Shinra.” His words landed heavy in the space between them.

Tifa's heart skipped. “You used to—?” She didn’t finish the sentence, but the implications of those words were enough to make her stomach churn. A noble son? Working for Shinra?

Zack shrugged, but it was a forced motion. “Used to. Cloud’s past is a little… complicated. But that’s not important right now.” He turned his focus back to her. “I’m guessing you didn’t come here just for the rustic ambiance?”

Tifa smiled faintly, but the lightness faded as she glanced at Cloud. “The letter.”

Cloud wordlessly reached into his coat and pulled it out, placing it carefully on the counter.

Zack stepped forward, fingers tapping the wood. “Alright. So let’s talk about the obvious. Why the hell does Sephiroth’s name—a name that no one dares speak out loud—show up in this letter?”

Tifa swallowed, the weight of the question pressing down on her. Sephiroth.

His name had been whispered for years—an enigma, a shadow in the minds of everyone who had heard it. Rumors varied from his supposed death in Nibelheim, to claims of him being a ghost, a vengeful spirit with too much power for any one person. Some stories painted him as a madman bent on destruction, others as a tragic figure caught in a web far too tangled for anyone to understand.

No matter the version, the effect was always the same: fear.

“His name shouldn’t be on this letter,” Cloud said, his voice tight. “But it is. And that’s why I need your help.”

Zack leaned in, his playful demeanor vanishing. “That’s all well and good, but how does Shinra factor into this? The letter says it’s for Rufus Shinra—what’s he got to do with Sephiroth?”

Cloud’s eyes darkened, and for the first time, he seemed truly unsettled. “That’s the part I don’t understand either. Why would Sephiroth send a message to Rufus Shinra? What does Shinra have to do with him now?”

Tifa felt the unease in her chest deepen. Her fingers brushed over the edges of the letter, its crisp paper crackling under her touch. The urgency in Cloud’s tone was real—he wasn’t just worried, he was scared. And if Cloud, of all people, was afraid…

Her mind raced. “What are we missing? What’s going on between Sephiroth and Shinra?”

Zack, sensing the seriousness of the situation, pressed further. “Let’s break this down. Sephiroth sends a letter to Rufus Shinra. Cloud, you get caught up in the middle of it. Now… are we talking about the same Sephiroth who was supposed to be dead for years?”

Cloud paused, his gaze distant as if trying to piece something together. “Yes… the same one. But…” His voice trailed off.

Zack didn’t wait for him to finish. “But if he’s alive—that changes everything. Sephiroth was a weapon for Shinra, but if he’s out there, in the flesh, and dealing with Rufus…” He clenched his fists. “That’s bad. That’s very bad.”

Tifa felt the weight of his words settle in her bones. “But why now? Why has he been silent for all these years?”

Cloud turned his gaze to her, a flicker of something she couldn’t quite place in his eyes. “Maybe he’s been waiting. Waiting for the right moment to make his move.”

Tifa’s heart skipped. “And if Rufus is involved… What does he want from him? And how am I supposed to help you with this?”

Zack shook his head, as if the answer was something unspeakable. “That’s the million gil question, right? We don’t know. But we’re running out of time.”

Cloud turned to Zack, his expression sharpening. “We can’t just sit around and wait for something to happen. We need to act before this… this whole mess consumes us.”

Tifa’s stomach twisted. Cloud was right. The stakes were higher than she had ever imagined. And the more she learned, the more questions she had.

“What’s the next move?” she asked, her voice steady, even though her pulse raced.

Cloud glanced toward the door, as if feeling something was off. Zack followed his gaze, brow furrowed.

Then—

A sound outside.

The scrape of boots on stone.

The three of them went still.

Cloud moved first, striding toward the door in two quick steps, peering through a gap in the boarded windows. His shoulders stiffened.

Zack was already moving, hand instinctively going to the sword at his hip. “Tell me that’s not who I think it is.”

Cloud turned back to them, his expression grim.

“We need to leave. Now.”

Tifa’s pulse spiked.

Something was wrong.

“Who is it?” she whispered.

Cloud met her eyes.

And the single word he spoke sent a shiver down her spine.

“Reno.”

The weight of the name was like a thunderclap.

One of Shinra’s bloodhounds.

A man who never came without reason.

Zack let out a breath, his hand tightening on his sword. “Alright then.” His grin was all teeth and danger. “Let’s give him a warm welcome.”

But Cloud wasn’t smiling.

Tifa wasn’t either.

Because in the pit of her stomach, she knew—

Nothing would ever be the same again.

TBC