False Night in Midgar
Night in Midgar was never truly dark.
Beneath the steel plates, the air was painted a faint, sickly green, the glow of the Mako reactors seeping through the smog like veins under diseased skin. High above, the slums were forever denied a sky, the heavens replaced with cold steel and a labyrinth of pipes that dripped with condensation.
From the cracked upstairs window of Seventh Heaven, Revenhart stood in silence. His gaze traced the steady throb of reactor light in the distance. The rhythm was too even, too artificial.
The planet groans… and they mine its pain.
It should have been enough to spark outrage, but emotion suppression reduced it to a quiet line of observation, filed away in the vaults of his mind. The skill was both gift and shackle—panic never touched him, but instinct dulled at the edges.
Behind him, the door opened without a creak. Narberal stepped inside, her presence as controlled as his own.
"Revenhart-sama. The woman downstairs wishes to speak with you. The loud man is resisting."
Tifa… and Barret.
"Let's hear them," he said, drawing his scarf tighter before heading down.
Ground Rules at Seventh Heaven
The bar was quiet, closed to customers, but far from empty. Barret stood near the counter, massive arms folded, his gun-arm polished to an oily gleam. Cloud leaned against the far wall, all edges and silence. Jessie and Biggs shuffled crates with far more interest in eavesdropping than actual work.
Tifa's expression was calm, but her eyes flicked between him and Narberal with subtle calculation.
"We need ground rules," she began.
Barret grunted, stepping forward. "Rule one—stay outta Avalanche business. You ain't one of us."
"I hadn't assumed I was," Revenhart replied evenly.
"Rule two," Tifa continued, "you pay for your room. Gil or work."
From the counter, Jessie smirked. "And if you break any stools with your teleport thing, you replace them."
"I'll buy them before I break them," Revenhart said, allowing the faintest curve of a smile. "Consider it a retainer."
Barret's eyes narrowed. "If Shinra comes sniffin' 'cause of you—"
"Barret," Cloud interrupted, tone just sharp enough to halt him.
"…I'll be annoyed," Barret finished gruffly, though the suspicion in his gaze didn't lessen.
Cloud's turn. "Don't lie to us. If you can help it."
Generous leash for someone like me."I'll avoid untruths," Revenhart said.
Narberal stepped forward, her voice cold. "If anyone threatens Revenhart-sama—"
"I'll handle it," Revenhart cut in smoothly. "Observe, Nabe."
Following Cloud – Patrol Observation
The next morning, Cloud left early, slipping into the waking market before the breakfast rush.
Revenhart followed, keeping three paces behind, Narberal shadowing him with silent precision. They weren't simply tailing him—they were studying the city's movements.
They passed Shinra watchposts: crude barricades manned by lightly armed guards. Revenhart noted their patrol timings, the lazy way their eyes scanned the street, the blind spots where an intruder could slip through unseen.
Sloppy. They trust the plate's weight to keep the slums contained.
Cloud didn't acknowledge their presence until they reached the market. "You two planning to follow me everywhere?"
"Only until I understand the lay of this place," Revenhart said.
Cloud grunted. "Try not to look like you're casing the joint."
Sector 7 Market – Materia Shop
The Sector 7 market was a patchwork of tin stalls and old wooden counters, alive with the smells of frying noodles, oil, and the sharp tang of ozone from the rail lines. Vendors called out prices while children darted between legs, clutching deliveries.
"You stand out," Tifa had warned. So Revenhart wore a black jacket over his robe, scarf drawn high to shadow his features.
Near the center of the market, the hum of Lifestream energy drew him in. It pulsed from a modest materia stall, tended by a lean woman with hands worn smooth by years of work.
"You buying green or blue? Purple's gonna cost extra," she said without looking up.
"Show me your broken ones," Revenhart replied.
Her brows knit in suspicion, but she fetched a dish of cracked materia. Revenhart picked one up, channeling a thin thread of magic into its fractured core. The Lifestream within spasmed, then steadied, the crack sealing with a faint, living light.
The shopkeeper froze. "You… you a synth tech?"
"A curious passerby," Revenhart said, setting it back. "Keep that one. For yourself."
For a heartbeat, her eyes flicked to the Shinra Security booth at the edge of the market. He noticed.
"Do not," he said softly, and the weight of the word pinned her in place.
Outside, Cloud's voice was low. "You fixed materia."
"I reminded it what it wanted to be."
"That's not how it works."
"It worked."
Shinra HQ – Watching the Ghost
In a dim surveillance room, a Shinra drone's feed tracked Revenhart and Cloud walking through the market.
"No ID match," the operator muttered. "Not Shinra, not Wutai… nothing."
Reeve rubbed his forehead. "Unknowns in the slums are never good news."
Scarlet sipped wine in the corner. "If he's that powerful, he's wasted down there. Bring him in, break him down, see what he's made of."
Hojo's chuckle was a dry rasp. "He's not of this world. I can feel it in the flow. The Lifestream recoils from him."
Reeve frowned. "And you're saying that like it's a good thing."
The Lifestream Speaks
That evening, Seventh Heaven was quiet. Revenhart sat in the corner, rolling a cracked materia between his fingers.
The hum came again—stronger. A ripple of alien awareness brushed his mind.
Who?
A passerby.
Not born. Not grown. Stolen breath. Why do you cut the flow?
I don't. Your jailors do.
They will end you.
Possibly.
A pause. Then—The silver shadow hunts all that does not belong.
Sephiroth.
The presence withdrew, leaving his thoughts colder than before. Narberal's eyes locked on him instantly.
"You are pale, my lord."
"I'm always pale."
The Alley Confrontation
Later, Revenhart stepped into the narrow alley behind the bar. The scent of oil and faint traces of flowers hung in the air.
A man in a suit emerged from the darkness, his smile neat but predatory. "Evening. You must be the magician."
"You must be lost."
"My employers value talent. Come quietly."
"No."
Two shadows dropped from the rooftops, hooks and ropes ready. Revenhart's hand rose lazily—magic shimmered, and for a heartbeat, the men saw monstrous shapes looming behind him, forms twisted and wrong.
They hesitated. That was enough.
Cloud's voice came from the alley mouth, calm but edged. "We're done here."
The suited man smirked. "For now."
Turks' Perspective
From a nearby rooftop, three figures in suits and sunglasses watched.
Reno tapped his EMR against his shoulder. "Guy's got style. Think he's for sale?"
Rude grunted. "Maybe."
Tseng didn't answer. His eyes stayed on Revenhart. "Or maybe he's trouble we don't understand yet."