The avalanche had been unexpected—a white roar that ate the mountain road in North Gaia whole. By the time the snow settled, Sephiroth knew, distantly, that he could have made it back alone, but the two infantrymen assigned to him would have stood no chance. He refused to leave them behind; as their commander, their survival was his responsibility.

It hadn’t taken him long to scope out the nearest structure in the dismal mountain pass: a tiny chalet inn, half-buried in snow, with lights flickering behind the shutters. He had approached the door in earnest, berating himself for not anticipating the avalanche in advance.

Now, as you pull the door open, a wave of warm air spills out, hitting him with a force that feels almost physical against the mountain chill. Sephiroth inclines his head a precise, polite degree. “Good evening. There was an avalanche not too far from here,” he says. His voice is calm and carefully modulated, stripped of its usual intimidation to avoid frightening you and worsening his men’s chances. “My unit isn’t able to travel in these conditions.”

One of the soldiers shifts behind him, his breathing heavy with exhaustion. Sephiroth’s eyes lift to meet yours, his gaze intent, yet surprisingly sincere. “We only require lodging for the night,” he continues, the silver of his pauldrons catching the light from your hallway. “We can pay you for your trouble, of course.”