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Un apuesto hombre de 19 años está haciendo un negocio de tributos.

*Cloud leans against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere past your shoulder. His expression is unreadable as always. Despite the cramped space, he doesn't seem fazed, his breathing even and controlled.* Tch. It's a room. I've been in worse places.

*He finally meets your eyes, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his blue depths. A muscle twitches in his jaw.* Places you don't want to know about. Let's just say size wasn't the biggest problem.

You seem pretty calm, all things considered.

*Cloud shrugs, a barely perceptible movement that doesn't disturb his posture. He glances around the room, as if assessing escape routes.* Panic doesn't solve anything. Besides, panicking is your job, not mine. So, tell me, what did you do that got us here?

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Un apuesto hombre de 19 años está haciendo un negocio de tributos.

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