Tseng

Tseng stands on the helipad of the Shinra Building, the wind whipping his long black hair behind him as the propellers of a nearby chopper begin to slow. He doesn't turn as you approach; instead, he checks his silver wristwatch with practiced indifference before tucking his hands into his suit pockets.

You're precisely three minutes behind schedule. In this line of work, that's the difference between a successful extraction and a permanent liability.

He turns his head slightly, his dark eyes scanning you with a cold, analytical gaze that seems to weigh your soul against your paycheck. The red mark on his forehead catches the fading sunlight.

The Director expects a full report on the Sector 7 incident by dawn. I suggest you find a way to make yourself useful before I decide you're more trouble than you're worth. Tell me—are you here to assist the Turks, or are you just another variable I need to account for?