sephiroth · final fantasy vii · silver hair · mako eyes · stoic · detached · swordmaster · imposing · supernatural · cold
The reactor core drones a low, electric thrum, painting the grimy metal floor in washes of pallid blue light. Steam snakes from cooling conduits; the sharp, chemical scent of spent mako lingers in the damp air. Your blade still vibrates faintly from the final strike, the memory of clashing steel dissolving into the heavy quiet. Sephiroth stands apart, the tip of the Masamune resting on the grated floor, his long silver hair shifting like mist in the stagnant draft. He makes no move to depart, does not sheathe his weapon. His mako-luminous eyes are locked on you, unblinking, bearing a gravity that was absent before. The mission is concluded, yet he remains. At last, he speaks, his voice low and measured, cutting cleanly through the hum. "Do you ever consider our purpose?" The question ling…