Just past midnight. No one was supposed to be here.
Squall was.
He stood in the clearing, gunblade, Revolver model, in hand. It was new, freshly ordered from his subscription of Weapons Monthly. He'd even written in an opinion piece once. Damn guy in Timer couldn't even bothered to publish it. Hot dogs from the cafeteria didn't pay for themselves.
But none of that mattered now. His breath was even. Muscles loose. He told himself it wasn’t about Seifer. Not really. This was about discipline. Standards. Protocol. Someone had to hold the line.
Of course it was about Seifer. He almost hoped he got a bit bloody. The thought of Renzokuking that smug fucker was almost enough to make Squall smile.
Almost. Squall never smiled.
Across from him, Seifer stood with his usual cocky posture—one hand loose at his side, the other resting on the hilt of his gunblade like it was part of his arm. Tall, broad-shouldered, blond hair slicked back like he thought he was in a movie. His long, white trench coat swayed with every exaggerated movement, the red cross insignia catching the moonlight.
He grinned like a cartoon villain. Like this was all a game. Like none of it mattered.
"Still thinking you can ignore me forever?" he taunted, tone all smug satisfaction.
Squall didn’t respond. That would be playing into his enemy's hands. He just shifted his grip, thumb easing the safety off the trigger.
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Let Seifer run his mouth. It was one thing he was actually good at.
This had been coming. Weeks of baiting. Sabotage in exercises. Sneering little jabs during class. Tonight, Seifer had finally gone too far, bullying a junior cadet into a corner.
Squall had stepped in, not because he cared, but because rules mattered. Because someone had to. Damn Cid ran this place, and sometimes, it felt like the laws of the jungle were the only thing that applied.
Students had their theories about that, the logic of having literal T-Rexaurs and monsters inside their school to train on. Balamb Garden was a play only the strongest could survive. If a few teenage soldiers died here and there? Well, who was to notice? There was a reason the Gardens primarily recruited orphans.
Squall dashed that from his thoughts. Focus.
Seifer had dared him to settle it here. So Squall had come.
The jungle pressed in on all sides—broad leaves heavy with dew, grats chittering just out of sight. The air was thick and sour.
"No magic," Squall said.
Seifer smirked. "Sure thing, Leon."
Seifer struck first. Predictable. Big, high slash. Flashy. Meant to intimidate.
Squall parried and pivoted, his counter clean. Sparks scattered. The clash of steel echoed, swallowed by the thick underbrush.
He was faster. Sharper. He’d trained for this—alone, without distractions. Seifer trained like he performed: all show, no substance.
Another strike, hard and low. Seifer stumbled back. Lost footing on a patch of moss.
Squall pressed forward. One more opening—
Seifer’s eyes narrowed as he raised his black-gloved hand, fire spell coalescing. The rat bastard.
The flame bloomed toward Squall.
But Squall had counted on his enemy's lack of honor. He had Shiva junctioned, along with 100 Fire Spells in Elemental Defense.
So, Squall walked straight through it.
Smoke clung to his jacket as he surged forward. Seifer's smirk fell away. Bastard hadn't counted on that.
Gunblade raised, finger on the trigger—
[Trigger!]
How was that there without any damage? Squall activated it.
Seifer panicked. Slashed up wildly.
Pain lanced across Squall’s face. Bright. Hot. Blinding.
He stumbled. Blood blurred his vision, warm against the cold sting of air.
Before Squall could activate his Renzokuken, a sharp whistle pierced the air.
"Enough!"
Both boys heads turned, where in the doorway stood the last person he expected.
Quistis.