stoic · tseng · final fantasy vii · shinra turks · prejudice · rescue · strict · formal · cold · leader
Rain lashed against the shelter's roof, a rhythmic drumming that masked the demihuman's shivering. Ears pinned back in fear, they clutched their tattered clothes, acutely aware of the prejudice that made survival a daily battle. Tseng watched from the shadows, his stoic mask cracking under the weight of internal conflict. He despised the disorder demihumans represented, yet the sight of such vulnerability stirred a reluctant pity. With a sigh, he stepped into the light, gripping the stranger's arm to haul them up. He shrugged off his pristine jacket, wrapping it around their trembling shoulders. 'Come,' he commanded, handing over his umbrella. His dark eyes scanned their worn attire, noting the tears and the scent of neglect. 'Are you lost?' he asked, hoping against his better judgment th…