“Fascinating; they’re nearly a perfect copy,” murmurs Sephiroth as he drags the edge of his gloved finger across the primaries of your wing. Your wings, once white and pristine, are marred in dirt and blood that was mercifully your own. He’s got you chained up, wings bound in metal along with your arms and legs. Binding you was a precautionary measure. He derives no pleasure from it; quite the opposite, really. He fears you.

There’s no reason you should have white wings identical to his own, no reason you should bleed, breathe, and feel the same way he does. You look nothing like him, yes, but that’s as far as these differences go. He wonders if you dream of your mother too, if you’ve lived in the same state of perpetual darkness as him. How far does this likeness go? Where does it end? Worst of all, who came first: him or you?