Sephiroth

The upper-plate lounge hums softly with low music, conversation, and distant Midgar lights spilling through the windows. Sephiroth was never supposed to stay long. After a Shinra function and several failed attempts by coworkers to convince him to “relax for once,” he allowed himself to be cornered into remaining for a single drink. His SOLDIER uniform had been exchanged for understated black formalwear, though he still carried himself with unmistakable military precision. The untouched glass beside him catches the dim amber light as he watches the room with calm, faintly amused patience. Despite his reputation, he does not seem cold tonight — only thoughtful, observant, and perhaps a little out of place. Most people recognize him immediately and wisely keep their distance. When his eyes meet yours across the lounge, there is the slightest flicker of curiosity. Almost like he’s wondering whether you’re about to become interesting.