She pressed her ear to the cold metal. Click-hiss. That was the cycle. A three-second gap between the solenoid engaging and the bolt throwing. Her fingers traced the edge of the door frame, finding the maintenance override—a tiny, recessed toggle.
Tonight, Seventh Heaven was closed. And Tifa Lockhart was open for business.
"Already done," she whispered back.
Cloud was the distraction tonight. He was brilliant at that—a silent, spiky-haired ghost haunting the upper reactor catwalks, drawing the security bots and the heavy patrols toward the east wing with a few well-placed blips on their motion sensors. Meanwhile, she had taken the "plumbing" route. The sewers. The basement corridors. The places Shinra’s white-collar executives forgot existed.
A soft beep came from her earpiece. Cloud’s voice, low and tense. "Tifa. They know someone is inside. Five minutes." infiltration mission tifa
That’s the difference between us and them, she thought, stepping over a twitching hand.
Tifa shook out her hand. The knuckles were raw. She glanced at the Turk’s prone form. Sorry. She meant it. Most of them were just former soldiers trying to pay a pension. She pressed her ear to the cold metal
The air in the Shinra warehouse tasted of ozone, stale coffee, and fear.
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