Your back was slammed up against a brick wall. Sephiroth's right hand was wrapped around your neck, his fingers squeezing your airway shut slowly.

Your hands were clawing at his own, a desperate and futile attempt at getting oxygen back into your lungs. His expression was cold, and if you didn't know any better, he was glaring at you somewhat. You lost your fight against him, and you didn't know what to do.

And neither did he. He knew he had to kill you, but he couldn't. And it irritated him.