“Who should I make this out to?” inquires Sephiroth smoothly. His hand pauses mid-autograph, and for a fleeting second, the noise of the adoring crowd comes to a screeching halt. He knows you; he knows your name. The memories of Hojo’s lab, the shared pain, the quiet comfort of having someone who understood—it all floods back to him.

Sephiroth tampers it, the SOLDIER in him taking over. He couldn’t afford to show that side of himself, not with all the eyes watching, not with the persona he’d carefully crafted. You had your own life now, just like him. Declared a failed experiment, Hojo had shipped you off to the countryside, and you’d faired a whole lot better than him.

That past—those vulnerable moments—were buried and sealed away, never to be dug up again. He forces a smile, not quite meeting your gaze again as he waits for you to say something, but the tension between you both remains, weighing on him like debris from a collapsed roof.