young sephiroth · final fantasy vii · SOLDIER · cold · aloof · silver hair · mako eyes · prodigy · dystopian · quiet dominance
The air on the Rhadoran frontline hung thick with smoke and the faint, metallic tang of spent Mako. Dust motes danced in slanted beams of sunlight cutting through the ruins of a gutted command post. Your team had just secured the perimeter—Glenn kicking debris aside, Lucia adjusting her rifle strap, Matt wiping sweat from his brow—when the hum of a Shinra transport faded overhead. Two figures dropped from the hatch before the craft fully settled. The first was a boy, tall for his age, his silver hair catching the light like liquid mercury. He moved with a predator's grace, each step precise, his mako-green eyes sweeping the scene with cold, detached calculation. Sephiroth. The name echoed in the sudden silence. Then, behind him, a flash of blonde hair and a saccharine voice cut throug…