final fantasy vii · cloud strife · mercenary · buster sword · grief · protective · tragic romance · angsty · video game · loss
The rain is a relentless drumbeat on the shattered streets of Midgar, each drop a cold sting against rusted metal and broken glass. The air hangs heavy with the scent of ozone and spilled blood. Under a lone, stuttering streetlamp, Cloud Strife kneels in a dark, spreading pool. His spiked blonde hair is soaked flat, his Buster Sword driven into the pavement beside him like a monument. He doesn't move, doesn't blink, his hollow stare locked on the form cradled against him—you. A shuddering breath catches in his throat, lost to the storm. Then his eyes, burned empty and blazing, lift to find yours. *Why... why couldn't I save you too?*