A friend? That's... new. He's too good at reading people to discount it, too good at spotting the lies and the social niceties and the Kuja my old friend how have you beens to think it's anything but genuine. The idea is almost patently absurd. He nods, stiffly, and goes inside. There's an almost-robotic showing of the moogle to the spare room, blanket and pillows provided. And the whole time, one poisonous thought echoes in the back of his mind.

Would they still proclaim friendship if they knew just how much of a monster you are?

He's still awake, when the morning comes. It's Mojito who rouses him, pulls him out of the shower, the hot water long since gone. Prods him until he eats something, prods him more until he drags himself into bed, and when he finally wakes up and reads the letter he even has enough energy to pretend it doesn't slip a blade between his ribs and twist.