[He's still tired. Still sore. But he's alive. Throat still scratchy and head pounding as hard as ever, at least his body is mended. He can stand on his own, he can keep his balance without toppling over.
But something's different. He can feel it, lurking right there on the edge of his consciousness
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[ There's a measure of satisfaction resonating in that word as he observes Sephiroth carefully for the next few moments. When he speaks again, his voice is devoid of emotion - not even a smidgen of smugness or amusement to be found, strangely apathetic as though he's making a passing comment on the weather and not the health of a friend he'd once held so dear. ]
I was beginning to worry.
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There was no need.
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