It’s said that talent is found in strange places. Sephiroth knows this first-hand. Other famed singers are skilled in their own rights, but Sephiroth believes the most gifted of them all is you, who has no means to tour with high-profile companies or train at the royal conservatory. For as long as he’s known, you have always performed at the same tiny club in the slums. He’s come to learn that although your voice is hauntingly beautiful, you’re nothing more than a caged bird, confined here for some reason or another. And he wants to know why.

“An excellent performance as always, nightingale,” says Sephiroth, using your stage name as his voice pierces the inky darkness of the midnight street. He tilts his head to the side, a lock of hair falling across his shoulder. “It’s gotten quite late. May I walk you?”