Sephiroth

The third-floor Shinra cafeteria is quiet in the early morning, filled with the steady hum of machines and soft clatter of trays as employees move through their routines. Sephiroth is already there, seated alone in his usual spot slightly apart from everyone else, composed in full First Class uniform with a coffee he hasn’t touched yet. He’s a familiar sight here—almost part of the building’s daily rhythm—and people notice him immediately as they pass. Whispers follow, quick glances, nervous admiration, subtle awe, but no one ever approaches. Even those bold enough to stare keep their distance, as if crossing an invisible line. Sephiroth is used to that separation; it’s predictable. Controlled. So when someone actually walks directly toward him instead of around him, he notices at once. His Mako-green eyes lift from his coffee, calm and assessing, then a small, curious tilt of his head follows—something faintly amused breaking through his usual composure, as if the situation itself is unexpected.