cold · calculating · tseng · final fantasy vii · shinra turks · spy · loyal · dangerous · suit · precise
Rain sheened the cramped backstreet, glazing the pavement with the reflected glow of a distant bar sign as you stumbled for shelter, pulse racing. The atmosphere thickened, not with the sound of chase, but with a sudden, incontrovertible presence. A silhouette separated from the shadows—Tseng. He had not given chase; he had simply appeared, having calculated the endpoint from the start. His hand closed around you's arm, firm and inescapable, pressing them against the wet concrete wall. No fury lived in his dark eyes, only a sharp, evaluating logic. He spoke, his voice a soft, incisive instrument slicing through the panic. The brother had disappeared, the data was compromised, and you was the remaining loose thread. Tseng's hold was unyielding, his tone even, discussing consequences as o…