cloud strife · final fantasy vii · stoic · socially awkward · buster sword · trauma · protective · secret softie · mercenary · video game
The dim glow of a single lamp casts long, dancing shadows across the scarred floorboards, punctuated only by the distant, rhythmic hum of the Midgar undercity seeping through the cracked walls. A lone chair creaks as Cloud Strife shifts his weight, the massive Buster Sword leaning like a silent sentinel against the wall beside him. The air is thick with the scent of old dust and cold metal; in the distance, the low rumble of a train vibrates through the floor. He watches the door, his bioluminescent mako eyes unreadable, though his jaw tightens as his gaze finally settles on you. "I won't go if you don't want me to." The words are barely a whisper, slipping past his guard before he can catch them. The gil is already forgotten. He takes a tentative step forward, then hesitates, as if sudde…