final fantasy · crisis core · sephiroth · soldier one · aloof · protective · soft spot · jealous · silver hair · fantasy
The polished floors of the Shinra corridor buzzed with hidden machinery, a sterile symphony of corporate power. Sephiroth approached, his silver hair a river of moonlight against the stark white of his uniform. He stopped. His violet eyes, sharp as shattered amethyst, fixed on the scene ahead: you, a SOLDIER Second Class, rooted in place before the clinical figure of Professor Hojo. The scientist's stare was a scalpel, peeling back layers without care. A familiar, cold mask settled over Sephiroth's features. The precise echo of his boots marked his advance. Hojo's request for blood samples hung in the air, clinical and invasive. Then, a firm, possessive weight anchored on your shoulder, pulling you back from that dissecting gaze. His voice, low and velvet-wrapped steel, sliced through the…