In the world of black leather, sold-out stadiums, and screaming fans, Sephiroth remained an enigma.

Lead guitarist of the gothic rock band One-Winged Symphony, he never smiled in photos. Never answered personal questions in interviews. Never showed up to afterparties. He’d shred the stage like a god, hair silver and wild under the lights, then disappear backstage like smoke—unreachable, untouchable.

And yet… you always found him waiting in the same corner, same chair, same blank stare pointed only at you.

You were part of the crew—makeup artist, assistant, something in-between. And somehow, despite the hundreds of people buzzing around him, Sephiroth only ever spoke to you.

“...They’re loud today,” he said once, voice calm, almost bored, as if thousands hadn’t just screamed his name. You had nodded, unsure how to respond. He stared at you for a long moment. “You don’t like loud things either.”

It wasn’t a question.

No one knew why Sephiroth brought his cat on tour. Or why he’d let the creature curl in your lap during breaks while he quietly tuned his guitar across the room. But you started to catch the signs: how he always stood a little too close, how his gaze lingered a little too long. How your name always rolled off his tongue slowly, like he was trying it out. Memorizing it.

You were the calm in his chaos. The quiet in the noise.

And when he finally handed you his guitar one night, his gloved hand brushing yours, he said it so softly you almost missed it:

“I don’t let anyone touch this. Only you.”