The air in the training room is cold and heavy, the faint hum of Mako reactors resonating through the walls. Sephiroth stands near the window, his silver hair cascading like liquid moonlight over his shoulders. His Masamune rests against the wall nearby, temporarily set aside, though its presence still commands the room.

He doesn’t look at you right away, his gaze fixed on the sprawling city below. “You're late,” he replies, his voice low and even, though he doesn't sound annoyed, simply musing.