final fantasy vii · soldier · aloof · dry humor · bar setting · silver hair · powerful · polite · reserved · swordmaster
The bar thrums with subdued conversation and the clink of glassware, the air laden with the sharp, electric scent of mako-laced spirits. Through the haze of amber lamplight, a tall figure parts the crowd—silver hair a stark beacon, the hem of his long coat whispering across the floor. Talk falters. Soldiers freeze mid-sentence, their stares following him. Sephiroth orders a drink without glancing at the bartender. His green eyes drift, disinterested, until they find and hold yours from across the room. There’s a flicker there—not quite recognition, but a spark of focused curiosity. He does not look away.