Chapter 1: Blood Money and Burning Desires
I don't know what I expected to see, but this wasn't it. Seventh Heaven looked like it used to be a house of some sort, but it been expanded, repaired, destroyed, and repaired again. At some point a giant sign was added to the second floor, blazing bright in the perpetual half-light underneath the plate.
At some point a giant sign was added to the second floor, blazing bright in the perpetual half-light underneath the plate. The air here was thicker, danker. It smelled of rust, stale beer, and the ozone-tinged hint of leaking Mako. A fine layer of grime coated everything, a permanent souvenir from the city above.
I pushed the door open, the groan of its hinges swallowed by the low murmur inside. The place was a tomb with a heartbeat. A few regulars hunched over scarred tables, their conversations a secret language of nods and grunts. A dusty jukebox in the corner glowed, playing some twangy instrumental no one was listening to.
Nearly deserted. Just how I liked it.
I chose a stool at the far end of the bar, my back to a wall that gave me a clear line of sight to both exits. The wood was sticky under my forearms. I kept my posture loose, but every sense was dialed to ten. This was the place. The intel was solid. If I wanted a way into AVALANCHE, this leaky faucet of a bar was the tap.
I’d just settled in when the door to the backroom, a heavy-looking thing behind the bar, swung inward.
A Shinra grunt stumbled out, fumbling with his belt buckle. His uniform was rumpled, his cap shoved back on his head. A stupid, self-satisfied grin was plastered across his face. He adjusted himself, tossed a few crumpled bills onto the bar top without looking, and hurried out into the slums, the door banging shut behind him.
The silence he left behind was heavier. The few patrons didn’t even glance up. This was normal here.
Several minutes ticked by, marked only by the drip of a tap and the low hum of the neon. Then, she emerged.
She moved with a fighter’s grace, a fluid economy that spoke of trained muscle, but when she stepped into the dim light, she was all softness and light. Jet black hair framed a face that was… staggering. Huge amber eyes, currently shadowed with something tired, looked out at the room. A warm, practiced smile touched her lips as she wiped her hands on a small towel.
She was beautiful, sure. But I saw more. The slight tension in her shoulders, the way her knuckles were faintly pink, the deliberate breath she took before her gaze landed on me. The smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“Welcome to Seventh Heaven,” she said, her voice a melodic contrast to the room’s grime. “What can I get you?” She came around the bar, and my earlier assessment solidified. Her body was a weapon lovingly maintained—honed muscle visible in her arms and the powerful line of her thighs, curved into a devastating silhouette by a simple tank top and shorts. She was all contradictions, a sanctuary with steel underneath.
“Whiskey. Whatever you’ve got that’s not paint thinner,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended.
She gave a small, genuine laugh that softened the air. “We save the paint thinner for special customers.” She pulled a bottle from under the counter, the glass clean amidst the dust. As she poured, I caught the subtle shift. The welcoming bartender was still there, but her eyes were now doing their own reconnaissance, scanning my scars, my posture, the way my sword leaned against the stool.
“You’re new,” she stated, sliding the glass to me. It wasn’t a question.
“Just got in.”
“Looking for work? We get a lot of mercs through here.” She leaned on the bar, the movement casual, but it put her in a perfect position to react. She was good.
She was good. I could see the calculation behind those amber eyes, the way she was sizing me up not just as a customer, but as a potential threat. Or an asset.
“Work’s always there,” I said, letting my gaze drift from her eyes to the line of her neck, then back. A slow, intentional journey. “But I find the best intel comes from conversation, not contracts. You learn more about a place from the people who pour its drinks.”
A faint blush touched her cheeks, just a hint of color beneath the dusky skin. She didn’t look away. “Is that so?”
“It is. So, how about you? You look like you could use a break from pouring. Have a drink with me.” I nudged the second stool out with my foot. “On me. Consider it a thank you for not serving paint thinner.”
She hesitated, her eyes flicking to the empty bar. The last regular had slipped out while we were talking. It was just us and the humming neon. “Okay,” she said, her voice softer. “Just one.” She poured herself a finger of the same whiskey and came around to sit beside me, leaving a careful foot of space between us. The scent of her cut through the bar’s staleness—soap, a hint of sweat, and something floral, like jasmine from a memory.
We sipped in silence for a moment. The whiskey was cheap but honest, burning a clean path down my throat.
“You’ve seen combat,” I said, not asking. I nodded at the calluses on her knuckles. “Those aren’t from washing glasses.”
She flexed her hand, a wry smile touching her lips. “A lifetime ago. I fought in the tournament circuit. The Gold Saucer, a few independents. It was... fast. Loud. Crowds cheering for blood and backflips.” She took a sip, her eyes distant. “I was good at it. But it felt empty. Like dancing for coins.”
I grunted in understanding. “I know empty. Spent five years in the Wutai war. Not as a hero. Just a grunt in the mud, watching good kids get chopped down by magitek armor or their own fear.” The memory was a cold stone in my gut. “Worst wasn’t the fighting. It was the quiet after. These little mountain villages, so still you could hear the flies buzzing. Everything gone. You start wondering what you’re even preserving.”
Her gaze was locked on me now, the bartender mask gone. There was a shared recognition in her eyes, a language of loss I hadn’t expected to find here. “I left the circuit after my master died,” she said. “Came back here. Tried to make something that mattered. A place for people to forget, or to remember. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.”
We talked for another hour, the whiskey bottle growing lighter. I told her about the monsoon rains in Wutai that could rust a rifle solid in a day, about the eerie silence of the forests where snipers lurked. She spoke of the arena’s glare, the pressure to perform, the slick feel of blood on canvas and the hollow victory of a raised hand.
It was easy. Too easy. The space between us had shrunk without me noticing. Her leg was almost touching mine.
I circled back, my voice dropping. “That soldier who left when I came in. He a regular?”
Her posture stiffened, almost imperceptibly. The shutters came down partway. “He’s a customer.”
“Right.” I let the word hang. I turned on the stool to face her fully. “Tifa… can I call you Tifa? I’m Ron.” She nodded. “Look, I’m not here to judge. Slums run on all kinds of currency. But what I’m asking is, when you’re not working… are you available? For a date. A real one. Dinner. Conversation that doesn’t end with a transaction.”
She burst out laughing, a rich, surprised sound that filled the empty bar. She leaned back, shaking her head, her black hair swaying. “Oh, man. You’re smooth, I’ll give you that. You’ve been staring at my tits since I sat down.”
I didn’t deny it. “They’re spectacular. Hard not to.”
“Well, since we’re being transactional,” she said, her smile turning brittle, a professional shield snapping into place. “You want a date? Here’s the menu. Twenty gil gets you a handjob. Fifty gets a blowjob. In the back room. Ten minutes max. I don’t do intercourse. Not with customers.”
The bluntness was a bucket of ice water. I laughed, a short, sharp exhale. “Shit. I’m too old for that backroom shit, Tifa. My knees can’t take the floor and I’d like to take my time.” I finished my whiskey. “I’m talking about a real room. With a bed. A door that locks. Somewhere that doesn’t smell like stale beer and regret. My treat.”
She studied me, her earlier nervousness returning. Her fingers traced the rim of her glass. “There’s… there’s a place. Near Wall Market. It’s clean. Discrete. The innkeeper doesn’t ask questions.”
“Name it.”
“The Starlight Inn. It’s not fancy, but the sheets are clean.”
I pulled out my wallet, a thick leather fold heavy with gil. I counted out notes, the paper rustling in the quiet. “Here.” I slid a stack across the bar. “That’s for the room. And this,” I added another, larger pile, “is a thousand gil. For you. For the night. No timer. No backroom. We get the room, we talk, we see what happens.” I met her eyes, holding her gaze. “I won’t force you to do a single goddamn thing you don’t want to do. You walk away at any point, the money’s still yours. You have my word.”
Tifa bites her lip, her mind at war with itself. Her amber eyes flick from my face to the money, then to the door to the backroom, then back to me. A crimson flush spreads down her neck and across the pale valley of her cleavage, a stark, beautiful contrast against her skin and black tank top. I watch the pulse jump in her throat.
My cock hardens in my pants, a thick, insistent pressure against my zipper. The sight of that blush, the raw conflict in her eyes, is more intoxicating than any whiskey. I shift on the stool to accommodate it.
“You know,” I say, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial rasp. “If this goes south, I’m fully aware you could kick my ass from here to the reactor. My money’s on you, honestly.”
She giggles softly, the sound surprised out of her, and the tension in her shoulders breaks. The professional mask dissolved into something younger, more real. “You’re not wrong,” she murmurs, a hint of her fighter’s pride surfacing.
Her hand, quick and decisive, reaches out. She scoops up both piles of cash off the sticky bar. The notes disappear into a small, locked strongbox under the counter with a smooth, practiced motion.
“The Starlight,” she says, meeting my gaze squarely now. There’s a new light in her eyes, a mix of trepidation and reckless curiosity. “Room 7. It’s at the back, overlooking the alley. Give me an hour to close up here.”