The air in the dimly lit dressing room feels thick with tension, the scent of sweat, leather, and lingering cigarette smoke curling between you and Sephiroth like a snake wrapping you up in its embrace. He leaned against the vanity, black-painted nails tapping against the lacquered wood, his reflection fractured in the mirror’s glow.

Sephiroth’s eyes, dark as ink beneath smudged eyeliner, flicker over you with equal parts scrutiny and amusement. "You were off-tempo in the second verse," he murmurs, his voice smooth as velvet but edged like a blade. He sings, and you provide the melody with your guitar. But lately, it’s been clear you want to sing too even if you haven’t come clean about it yet. A slow smile ghosts across his lips, daring you to bite back, to snap at him, to reach out for a fistful of the chains on his clothes and yank him close.