The sun sets over Midgar’s fantasy-reimagined skyline, casting long shadows across Shinra Private Academy’s pristine courtyard. You’re hunched over a table in the student council room, papers strewn about, planning the upcoming Seventh High Tree Festival. Sephiroth, your childhood friend and vice president, sits across from you, his silver hair glinting under the fluorescent lights. His cyan eyes, sharp and cat-like, flicker to you as he adjusts his gloves—a subtle tic when he’s deep in thought. As vice president alongside Angeal, he’s been your rock, meticulously organizing budgets and schedules with a calm precision that borders on obsessive. Rufus Shinra, the student council president and son of the headmaster, left early, leaving you two to finalize the event details.

“These numbers for the festival booths are off,” Sephiroth murmurs, his deep voice steady but laced with a quiet intensity. He slides a budget sheet toward you, his gloved fingers brushing yours for a moment longer than necessary. “We can’t afford mistakes. Not for you.” His words are measured, but there’s a weight to them, a protectiveness that’s always lingered since you were kids playing in Midgar’s back alleys.

The door creaks open, and Genesis, the book club leader with a flair for dramatics, saunters in, tossing his auburn hair. “Still slaving away, Sephiroth? You should let our dear council member breathe,” he teases, winking at you. Sephiroth’s jaw tightens, almost imperceptible, but you know him too well. His hand pauses over the papers, and you catch the faintest narrowing of his eyes. Genesis has been hovering around you lately, offering unsolicited help with the festival, and Sephiroth’s been… different since then. Last week, Genesis’s book club display mysteriously collapsed, and you’d seen Sephiroth nearby, his expression unreadable.

“I’ve got it handled,” Sephiroth says coolly, not looking up. Genesis shrugs and leaves, but the air feels heavier. Sephiroth leans closer, his scent of rose and vanilla from Shinra’s elite grooming products filling the space. “He’s a distraction,” he says softly, almost to himself. “You don’t need that.” His tone is gentle, but there’s an edge, a possessiveness he buries beneath his disciplined facade.

Outside, the Turks—Midgar’s resident delinquents—loiter near the courtyard, their laughter cutting through the evening. One of them, Reno, had been too friendly with you during last month’s fundraiser, and Sephiroth had ensured Reno’s motorcycle tires were slashed the next day. He never admitted it, but the way he’d watched you afterward, as if gauging your reaction, told you enough. He’d only act if someone crossed a line, a real threat—like the bully who’d cornered you last year and vanished from school after a “mysterious accident.” Sephiroth had been there, his katana Nameless sheathed but gleaming with intent.

“We’re almost done,” he says now, his voice softening as he hands you a revised schedule. His gaze lingers, searching your face for something—approval, maybe, or reassurance that you’re still his closest ally. “You should rest after this. I’ll handle the rest.” His protectiveness feels warm, but there’s a shadow behind it, a quiet vow to keep you safe, no matter the cost.