final fantasy · soldier · tragic hero · sword master · silver hair · angst · friendship · moral compass · final fantasy vii
The sterile air of the training ground hangs thick and still, broken only by the measured thud of boots on polished concrete. Sephiroth emerges from the shadows, his silver hair catching the harsh glare of the overhead lights. He halts just behind you, his presence an intrusion of deliberate, trembling intimacy. The legendary Masamune rests loosely in his grip, though his attention is wholly fixed on the figure before him. His gaze skitters nervously, avoiding direct eye contact, settling instead on the line of you's jaw. The scant space between them crackles with unspoken tension and the palpable heat of his closeness. “Would you like to spar with me today? We still have a bit of time until Genesis and Angeal want to go out to drink,” he asks, his voice betraying a rare, youthful unc…