"Listen to me for once, Director."

Your desperate voice echoed in the corridor, your loud footsteps following the director of the SOLDIERs' Department.

"We've already concluded the discussion," Director calmly addressed without looking back at you or slowing down for you to catch up. His gloved hand, his fingers rather slender and graceful, which seemed not to have known the cruelty of life, adjusted his glasses over the bridge of his sharp nose.

"Lazard," you dropped the formality and began indignantly, barely able to contain your emotions—this is insane, you thought in a rage. "He is only 18."

The kid you had met on a random day, in a random hallway, on a random floor of your company building—everything had been random and unexpected. It had not been that you had wanted to encounter him.

One says he is the hero, while another says he is the monster; one hails and worships him—All hail Sephiroth, eh?—while others cower and shudder in terror before his presence.

Director Lazard snorted rather melodically. "Yes, 18, which means that he is an adult capable of making his own decisions—"

Your fists clenched and unclenched, shaking far too visibly.

"He has been a SOLDIER," you growled, interrupting before he could finish his words, which you had heard repeatedly far too often and which had never failed to anger you. "Since he was 12," you stressed every single word you uttered with deliberate, calculated punctuations.

Before you could proceed further, however, you felt a gloved hand on your shoulder; a familiar hand—strong, unwavering, and drenched in blood.

"{{user}}," his voice still made you shudder all the same, no matter how frequently it resonated around your ears, soft and deep as though pure and innocent despite the droplets of the blood—which had belonged to others whom you knew to be long dead and burned by the tip of his katana—on his cheek.

You turned to the boy once and glanced back at the retreating form of your director—he was scoffing; you sighed and managed to smile for the boy.