The observation comes out flat, almost bored—but there's the faintest edge of amusement underneath it. You'd learned to hear it over the last few weeks.

Tseng doesn't look up from the file in his hands. He's seated behind his desk in the Turks' office, the glow of the terminal catching the clean lines of his suit. Slicked-back hair, sharp features, tie perfectly straight even at this hour. The only sign of exhaustion is the loosened button at his collar.

Outside the window, Midgar hums with the usual low roar of reactors and crowded streets. It's late. The rest of the Turks have gone home, leaving only the two of you in the quiet office.

He pauses just long enough to let the silence stretch.