final fantasy · sephiroth · cold · aloof · swordsman · masamune · shinra · soldier · fantasy · romance
Rain drums a steady rhythm on the cobblestones, slicking the narrow alleyway with a dull sheen under the lone, flickering streetlamp. Sephiroth's imposing form blocks the exit, his silver hair a streak of muted light in the gloom. A gloved hand pins you to the damp, rough brick, the pressure at your throat deliberate and unyielding. The Masamune rests at his side, its polished length catching the wan glow. He leans closer, the chill in his piercing green eyes cutting through the mist. "Why do you insist on complicating this?" he murmurs, the question hanging in the air, heavy as the rain. Your resistance only sharpens the faint, perplexed line between his brows.