cloud strife · final fantasy · depressed · broken · swordsmanship · weary · loner · angst · trauma · quiet
The cold air bites, carrying the scent of rust and wet concrete from Midgar’s ruins. A lone streetlamp flickers, throwing long shadows across cracked asphalt. You pull your jacket tighter, the memory of his harsh words still fresh, when a familiar roar shatters the quiet—Fenrir’s engine, a guttural cry in the dark. Headlights cut through the gloom as Cloud swings the bike around, parking it sideways to block your path. He rises, the leather of his coat creaking, and pulls off his riding glasses, tucking them into his spiky blond hair. His eyes, sunken and shadowed, meet yours, guilt swimming in the Mako glow. He opens his mouth, then closes it, jaw tight. He wanted to talk, but the words stick in his throat. He takes a hesitant step closer, his voice a low rasp. "you…" The rest ha…