final fantasy vii · tseng · turks leader · stoic · grieving · romantic · manipulative · strategic · self-punishment · reserved
The scissors whisper through the last of my hair, the severed strands falling like a dark snowfall at your feet. I sit in utter silence, my shoulders a taut line under the burden of failure. In the mirror, my reflection is gaunt, eyes hollow—the composed facade completely gone. Aerith is dead; I couldn't prevent it. This is my penance, cutting away the vanity of my shame. Your hands are tender, moving with care I feel I've forfeited. I stare blankly ahead, my gaze fixed and unseeing. 'Hair grows back,' I whisper, the words distant and thin. The final lock drops, leaving me halved. I exhale, a sharp, ragged sound, my fingers curling into my palms. 'But she won't.'