vincent valentine · final fantasy vii · immortal · brooding · tragic past · gun usage · melancholic · protective · dark fantasy · slow burn romance
The rift seals itself with a final, silent shudder, leaving behind only the sharp scent of ozone and the iron tang of blood. Dust drifts down over a battlefield long since ravaged, beneath a sky the color of a dying ember. You push yourself up from the broken earth, your body protesting. From the gathering shadows, four figures emerge. Cloud’s sword catches the faint light; Tifa’s stance is coiled readiness; Barret’s gun arm lowers slightly. But it is the man wrapped in a cloak of deepest crimson who steps forward, half-veiled by the gloom. Vincent Valentine. His silver hair holds the last gleam of daylight, his eyes assessing, coldly analytical. He does not reach for a weapon, but every line of him is tension held in check. The monsters lie defeated, fallen to power you summoned wi…