Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Angeal’s phone buzzed at 1:03 a.m. He cracked one eye open, groaning. “...If this isn’t an emergency, I swear—”

On the other end, Kunsel’s voice wavered between slurred and oddly focused. “Angeal… buddy… you gotta come get them.”

“Get who?” Angeal sat up, already dreading the answer.

“Zack. Genesis. And… uh… Sephiroth.”

Angeal blinked. “…Sephiroth? You’re telling me Sephiroth is drunk?”

Kunsel hiccupped. “Drunk, loud, and currently arguing with a vending machine. Genesis is reciting poetry to it, Zack is trying to climb it, and Sephiroth… well… he just threatened to cut it in half for refusing his card.”

Angeal pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why are you calling me?”

“Because you’re the responsible one. And also… I can’t drive. I may or may not have mistaken a lamppost for a chocobo five minutes ago.”

From the background came Zack’s unmistakable voice: “GENESIS, STOP FLIRTING WITH THE SNACKS!”

Genesis, dramatically. “The chips understand me better than you ever could, Zackary.”

Then Sephiroth, calm but terrifying. “If this machine does not dispense my drink, I will end its existence.”

CLANG.

Kunsel whispered urgently. “He just unsheathed Masamune.”

Angeal threw on his coat, muttering, “I swear, if I have to bail the General out of jail, I’m retiring tomorrow.”

The night had started with one quiet drink. Then Zack discovered a cocktail with neon-blue foam, Sephiroth accepted a dare from Genesis (a terrible idea on any day ending in “y”), and Genesis himself quickly slid from “dramatic” to “theatrically inebriated.”

By the time the lights dimmed for last call, the bar was a battlefield of questionable choices.

Angeal pulled up outside the bar, headlights cutting through the dark. He spotted Kunsel waving frantically, half leaning against a lamppost like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Inside, the chaos was unmistakable. Zack was halfway up the vending machine, Genesis was dramatically reciting Loveless to a bag of pretzels, and Sephiroth…

Angeal froze.

“…Why are you in a dress?”

Sephiroth turned, sleek fabric hugging his frame, silver hair cascading like he’d just stepped off a runway. His expression was calm, almost regal. “It was… provided.”

“Provided by who?” Angeal demanded, rubbing his temples. “You left the dorms in minimalist black with Genesis and Zack. Now you look like you’re about to host a gala.”

Genesis, swaying, chimed in. “By yours truly of course!”

Zack, still clinging to the vending machine. “I told him he looked great! Then he tried to buy a soda and the machine disrespected him.”

Sephiroth’s voice was dangerously level. “It denied me hydration. It will pay.”

Angeal sighed. “No. No Masamune. No destruction. We’re leaving. Zack come down from there,”

Zack landed with a light thud, and unsteadily came to perch sideways on a barstool beside Angeal, legs swinging, repeatedly poking Angeal’s bicep. “Hey. Hey, Angeal. Look.” He held up a handful of tiny cocktail umbrellas. “I stole trophies.”

“They’re… very nice,” Angeal replied, already tired.

“They represent my victories.”

“Your victories are very small and made of paper,” Genesis muttered into his drink, swaying.

At the other end of the counter, where Sephiroth stood tall—far too tall for the dress he currently inhabited. Genesis had somehow convinced him to try on the sleek silver number “for the sake of art.” Sephiroth, in a rare combination of alcohol and competitiveness, accepted.

Threats against the vending machine forgotten. Now he posed dramatically, one hand on his hip, the slit of the dress showing entirely too much leg.

“Tell me, Angeal,” Sephiroth said with the intensity he usually reserved for mission briefings, “am I… ethereal?”

“You’re… something,” Angeal answered diplomatically.

Genesis, also having lost interest in the vending machine and his pretzels, half draped himself over the counter, slammed his empty glass down that he got from somewhere. “You’re glowing, Sephiroth. Positively luminous. Like a moonbeam with a superiority complex.”

“That sounds correct,” Sephiroth said, pleased.

Zack burst into loud laughter. “Seph, spin again!”

“I am not a performer—” But he spun anyway, the dress flaring beautifully. Half the bar cheered.

Angeal groaned into his hand. Why do I ever leave the dorms…?

When the bartender with a mix of tired and amusement informed Angeal that they were cut off and the bar would be closing in thirty minutes, Angeal put his foot down.

“Alright, everyone up. We’re done.”

Zack hopped off the stool and saluted. “Aye-aye, Captain Responsible!”

Genesis tried to stand but forgot how knees worked.

Sephiroth lifted him with one arm, bridal-style. In the dress.

Half the bar took photos.

That was the moment Angeal accepted that he would never live tonight down.

It took several minutes—and Angeal’s last shred of patience—to funnel all three toward the door. Genesis paused at the threshold and pointed accusingly. “You’re all unrefined heathens who do not understand the significance of aesthetic expression.”

“You put Sephiroth in a dress,” Angeal reminded him.

“And look how radiant he is!”

Sephiroth nodded solemnly. “I am radiant.”

Zack giggled so hard Angeal had to physically steer him by the shoulders. “I’m calling shotgun!”

Finally, they spilled out into the cool Midgar night. But then Genesis remembered something. “But the pretzels and I have unfinished poetry!”

“Genesis, the pretzels don’t care.” Angeal grabbed him by the elbow.

Sephiroth, unbothered, adjusted the hem of his dress. “I will walk. The night air suits me.”

Angeal sighed, herding them toward the car like unruly chocobos. “HQ is going to hear about this. And Sephiroth—” he glanced at the dress again, baffled, “—we’re having a long talk tomorrow.”

From the backseat, Genesis whispered dramatically. “The pretzels will miss me.”

Zack snorted. “The pretzels are stale, man.”

Sephiroth, staring out the window, murmured. “The machine will remember me.”

Angeal gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I should’ve stayed in bed.”

The car was barely out of the parking lot before the noise began.

Genesis, sprawled dramatically across the backseat, cleared his throat. “Allow me to serenade us with Loveless.”

Angeal groaned. “Genesis, no.”

But Genesis was already belting out lines, off-key and with far too much vibrato. Zack clapped along enthusiastically, shouting, “Encore! Encore!” every thirty seconds. Meanwhile, Sephiroth sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, dress perfectly unwrinkled despite the chaos. His gaze was fixed on Angeal’s hands at the wheel. “You’re drifting two centimeters to the left.”

Angeal tightened his grip. “It’s called driving, Sephiroth.”

“It’s called imperfection,” Sephiroth replied coolly. “I expected better.”

From the back, Zack leaned forward. “Hey, can we stop for fast food? I’m starving. Burgers, Angeal. Burgers!”

Genesis raised a hand dramatically. “No! Only fine dining suits a man of my caliber. A midnight feast of poetry and wine!”

Zack rolled his eyes. “Bro, you just tried to marry a bag of pretzels.”

Genesis gasped. “They understood me!”

Sephiroth, still critiquing, added. “Your braking is inefficient. You waste 0.3 seconds per stop.”

Angeal muttered under his breath, “I waste years dealing with you three.”

The car swerved slightly as Genesis hit a high note. Sephiroth’s eyes narrowed. “Correction: now you’re drifting three centimeters.”

Zack slapped the dashboard. “FAST FOOD, ANGEAL. I’ll even pay! …Okay, I’ll ask Kunsel to pay.”

Genesis began conducting himself like an orchestra, singing louder. Zack joined in, turning it into a chaotic duet. Sephiroth sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is intolerable.”

Angeal finally snapped. “If anyone sings, critiques, or mentions burgers again, I’m pulling over and you’re walking back to HQ.”

The car fell silent for three blessed seconds.

Then Zack whispered: “…Chicken nuggets?”

Genesis immediately harmonized, “Nuuuuuuuuuuuggets!”

Sephiroth, deadpan. “Your steering correction was delayed.”

Angeal slammed his forehead against the wheel at a redlight. “I should’ve stayed in bed.”

The car screeched to a halt outside Shinra HQ in a parking spot. Angeal killed the engine, exhaling like a man who’d just survived a war. “Out,” he ordered.

Genesis immediately leapt from the backseat, arms wide, continuing his dramatic serenade. “ When the war of the beasts brings about the world’s end… “

Zack joined in, off-key but enthusiastic. “The pretzels will rise again! “

Angeal groaned. “That’s not even the line.”

The night guards at the entrance froze, wide-eyed. One whispered, “Is… is that Sephiroth?”

Because Sephiroth had stepped out last, sweeping across the pavement like it was a catwalk. His sleek dress shimmered under the HQ floodlights, silver hair flowing, expression cool and untouchable. He didn’t walk — he glided.

The guards straightened immediately, saluting nervously. One muttered, “He looks… incredible.”

Sephiroth paused at the top of the steps, turning slightly so the light caught him just right. “This building is unworthy of my entrance,” he declared, voice calm but commanding.

Genesis clapped dramatically. “Yes! Own the night, Sephiroth!”

Zack, still humming, added, “Bro, you look like you’re about to drop the hottest mixtape of the year.”

Angeal dragged a hand down his face. “Please, just get inside before someone calls security.”

The guards exchanged looks, unsure whether to intervene or simply let the spectacle unfold. One whispered, “Do we… stop them?”

The other shook his head quickly. “Are you kidding? Sephiroth’s in a dress. Genesis is singing. Zack’s… whatever Zack’s doing. I’m not getting involved.”

Sephiroth swept past them, chin high, as if the HQ lobby was his personal runway. Genesis followed, still singing, Zack harmonizing with him in chaotic bursts.

Angeal trudged behind, muttering, “I should’ve stayed in bed.”

If the bar had been chaotic, the walk to their flats was a pilgrimage through absurdity.

Zack ran ahead, weaving between stylised indoor lamp posts and doing dramatic spins. “I’m FAST. I’m like—a blur of excellence!”

“You tripped over a floor mat ten minutes ago,” Angeal called after him.

“That was just a warm-up fall!”

Sephiroth, deciding to carry Genesis like a bride after the fiery commander tilted one too many times in either direction as if wanting to make friends with the floor, strode down the polished tiles with absolute certainty. The lights reflected off the dress, creating a shimmering air around him.

Genesis rested his head against Sephiroth’s shoulder. “If I perish tonight, bury me in poetry.”

“You are not perishing,” Sephiroth replied. “You are intoxicated.”

“Same thing,” Genesis mumbled.

Angeal walked behind them, rubbing the bridge of his nose, every step steeped in resignation.

As they approached the elevators, Zack suddenly stopped, turned, and pointed at Angeal with both hands.

“Hey. Angeal. Angeal.”

“…What?”

“You’re the best. Like, the best best. Like—like if responsibility were a person? It’d be you.”

Angeal sighed, but a faint smile escaped. “Just keep walking.”

Zack threw his arms up triumphantly and continued bounding toward the lift.

Security paused when Sephiroth approached—dress, glitter, and unconscious Genesis in his arms—but wisely decided not to ask questions.

Inside the elevator, Angeal sighed and keyed in the First Class' floor. Herding the last of his friends through his apartment. “Alright,” he said, clapping his hands like a tired father of three hyperactive toddlers. “Bed. Now. All of you.”

Zack saluted again and darted toward his designated spare room.

Sephiroth headed for his chosen room, still carrying Genesis.

“Seph,” Angeal called after him. “Put him down.”

Sephiroth looked over his shoulder. “He is asleep. Returning him to the floor would be… inefficient.”

Angeal let out a long, defeated breath. “Fine. Whatever. Just—try not to tear the dress.”

Genesis, half-conscious, murmured, “Art must suffer…”

Angeal shook his head and finally trudged toward his own room.

Sleep clothes, disheveled hair, aching patience—and the deep, weary relief of having survived the night with minimal property damage.

Maybe tomorrow he’d have the energy to be amused.

But tonight? He was going straight to bed.

~~~

THE MORNING AFTER
Angeal stepped out of his room, having freshly showered in his ensuite, completely awake, and carrying the smug serenity of someone who did not get drunk last night.

He checked on Zack first. Or rather—he found the shape of Zack.

Zack was sprawled halfway off his bed, blankets on the floor, one leg hanging over the edge, and several crumpled cocktail umbrellas stuck in his hair.

He groaned weakly when Angeal nudged his shoulder.

“Morning, Zack.”

“Don’t… morni'g me,” Zack whispered, squinting like the lights were personally attacking him. “Everything hurts. Even m' eyelash' hurt. Guess that's wha you get f'r drinkin' somethi'g that glowed... but 't tasted like victory,” Zack croaked. “... uuughhhhhh, n'vmind - 't tasted like battery acid.”

Zack groaned again and immediately rolled off the bed with a thump.

Angeal left him to reconsider his life choices.

Genesis’ room was next.

The door was cracked open, so Angeal tapped it lightly.

Inside, Genesis lay face-down on the carpet like a fallen deity, coat partially tangled around a chair leg. His hair was a disaster, half his makeup smeared, and he groaned something that sounded vaguely like a curse in three different languages.

Sometime through the early morning, either Sephiroth himself or Genesis worked up the limb-coordination needed to return to his room.

Angeal crouched beside him. “Rough night?”

Genesis lifted one finger without lifting his head. “Silence, Angeal. Silence, or I shall perish.”

“You already said that last night.”

“This time I mean it.”

“Do you at least remember what happened?”

Genesis groaned into the carpet again. “Enough to be ashamed. But not enough to know why Sephiroth was wearing my dress.”

“We’ll get to that,” Angeal said, patting his shoulder.

Genesis made a strangled noise that might have been gratitude or suffering.

And then there was Sephiroth.

Angeal knocked politely. No answer.

He pushed the door open.

Sephiroth was sitting in bed, sheet wrapped around his waist, hair a tangled curtain over his shoulders, looking down at something in his hands with a level of baffled intensity normally reserved for experimental weaponry.

The silver dress.

He held it up between two fingers like it might explode.

“…Angeal,” Sephiroth said slowly, voice gravelly from sleep. “Why is this in my room?”

“You wore it last night.”

Sephiroth stared at him.

Stared at the dress.

Stared at him again.

“I wore this?”

“Yes.”

“In public?”

“Yes.”

“And people saw me?”

“Many people.”

“…Did I allow this?”

“You not only allowed it—you posed.”

Sephiroth blinked. “…Posed.”

“Spun, too.”

There was a long, painful silence.

Sephiroth closed his eyes, as though hoping the universe might take pity on him. “It would seem,” he said tightly, “that I was intoxicated.”

“Yes.”

Sephiroth opened one eye. “…How intoxicated?”

“You carried Genesis home bridal-style.”

Both eyes opened.

“…In the dress?”

“In the dress.”

Sephiroth stared at the offending garment again.

Then, in a completely flat tone. “I see.”

Angeal nodded sympathetically. “Coffee?”

“Yes. Immediately.”

By the time all three disasters shuffled into the kitchen, Angeal had brewed a pot of coffee strong enough to wake the dead.

Zack arrived first, hair pointing in twelve directions.

Genesis slithered in second, sunglasses on indoors.

Sephiroth came last, silent, composed—except for the faintest pink at the tips of his ears.

Zack slumped into a chair. “Did we… do anything stupid?”

“Yes,” Angeal said.

Genesis groaned. “How stupid?”

“Very.”

Sephiroth took a slow sip of coffee, refusing to make eye contact with either of them.

Zack squinted at him. “Hey, Seph. Why are your ears pink?”

“They are not.”

“They totally are.”

Genesis lifted his sunglasses just enough to peer over them. “Are you… blushing?”

Sephiroth’s jaw clenched. “I do not blush.”

“They’re pink,” Zack sing-songed.

“Silence,” Sephiroth said, in the soft, deadly voice he usually reserved for enemies rather than friends.

Zack grinned. “Seph wore a dress~”

Genesis winced. “Please don’t sing. My skull is fragile…”

Angeal sipped his coffee, finally amused. “Next time,” he said, “you’re all sticking to non-glowing beverages.”

Zack, Genesis, and Sephiroth all spoke at once: “Yes, Angeal.”

And in that moment—three painfully hungover SOLDIERs and one exasperated caretaker—the morning found some peace.

Chapter Text

LATER THAT MORNING - THE SOLDIER LOUNGE
Word spread fast.

Faster than missions.

Faster than supply shortages.

Faster than Zack on four energy drinks.

By mid-morning, the SOLDIER lounge was buzzing with whispers, stifled giggles, and several people pretending they were not watching the entrance like a pack of gossiping wolves.

Kunsel, never one to waste good intel and somehow recovered from his hangover, was already typing furiously on his PHS—probably updating his “internal morale booster” blog that everyone pretended they didn’t read.

“Do you think it’s true?” whispered one Third Class.

“That Sephiroth wore a dress?” another whispered back. “I heard he strutted.”

“No way. He doesn’t… strut.”

“You didn’t see him after training last week—he might.”

Someone else leaned in conspiratorially. “I heard he spun.”

The group gasped.

Zack pushed the door open first, squinting at the too-bright lights. “I can feel the gossip,” he mumbled. “It’s like… prickles of shame.”

Genesis followed, wrapped in a cloak like a celebrity avoiding paparazzi. “Fools,” he hissed under his breath. “All of them.”

Sephiroth walked in last, posture impeccable, expression stone-carved, coffee in hand like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to sanity. Angeal shadowed them like a weary shepherd, fully expecting trouble.

The lounge went dead silent.

Sephiroth paused mid-step.

Genesis froze dramatically.

Zack stared back at the room with a horrified, knowing grimace.

Then someone in the back snorted.

The sound was like the starting gun of a race. Suddenly-

“Is it true?”

“General Sephiroth, sir, is it accurate you wore couture?”

“Was it sequined?”

“Did you really carry Commander Rhapsodos bridal-style?”

“Sir, with all due respect, did you… twirl?”

Sephiroth set his coffee cup down. Very slowly. Very carefully. “Who,” he asked in a voice colder than a mako freezer, “recorded last night?”

The room went silent.

Then Kunsel bolted.

“KUNSEL,” Sephiroth barked.

The Third Class sprinted like his life depended on it. Because it did.

Zack inhaled sharply. “Oh no—he’s going Full Commander Mode—everyone run!”

“I am not doing this hungover,” Genesis muttered, but Sephiroth had already moved, gliding across the floor with the unstoppable purpose of a missile.

Kunsel shot down the hallway. “I’m innocent! Evidence is for morale! MORALE!”

“DELETE. IT,” Sephiroth growled, steps echoing behind him like the march of doom.

Zack took off after them—partly to help, partly because running was easier than facing the crowd’s questions.

Genesis simply turned around and closed the lounge door behind him. “I refuse to be part of this narrative.”

Angeal sighed and followed the stampede.

Kunsel ducked around a corner—straight into two other SOLDIERs who were reviewing something on a handheld device.

“Oh—hey, is that the video?” one asked.

Sephiroth materialized behind them.

Both froze.

“Hand,” Sephiroth said.

They immediately offered the device like an offering to a furious deity.

Sephiroth scrolled. Watched. Blinked slowly.

Zack’s laughter echoed up the corridor. “Ohhh, that’s the one where you do the little hip pop!”

Sephiroth deleted the file with surgical efficiency.

“Does anyone else possess footage?” He asked, voice stripped of mercy.

Kunsel raised a hand hesitantly. “Theoretically? Maybe? It’s possible there are… backups.”

Sephiroth closed his eyes. “Show me.”

For the next hour, the halls of Shinra saw a force of nature sweep through them; Sephiroth relocating entire groups of SOLDIERs with a look. Zack trying (and failing) to persuade people to voluntarily surrender evidence. Genesis trailing behind with running commentary like an offended noble. And Angeal collecting discarded memory cards to ensure Sephiroth didn’t accidentally destroy company property.

One unlucky trooper tried to lie about not having any footage.

Sephiroth’s eyebrow rose one millimeter.

The trooper emptied his pockets so fast his ID badge flew out.

By the end – all videos. All photos. All embarrassing clips. Deleted.

Except Kunsel’s backups.

Which he safely stored under three layers of encryption and labelled; “In Case of Low Morale — Use Only with Extreme Discretion.”

After the purge, the group returned to the lounge.

Zack collapsed onto a couch. “Well… that was exhausting.”

Genesis lifted his sunglasses. “Humiliating.”

Angeal sat beside them. “Necessary.”

Sephiroth stood, arms crossed. “I expect confidentiality from all involved.”

Kunsel nodded furiously. “Absolutely, sir. Completely confidential.”

A soft notification dinged from his PHS.

Zack peered over. “Dude… did you just post an encrypted tease about it to the network?”

Kunsel hid the device behind his back. “Morale, Zack. Morale.”

Sephiroth pinched the bridge of his nose. “This will never end.”

“Nope,” Zack said cheerfully. “Not ever.”

Genesis smirked. “I, for one, will be making poetic use of it for years.”

Angeal sipped his coffee, finally giving in to a laugh. “At least next time, you’ll know not to take Genesis’ dares.”

Sephiroth glared at Genesis.

Genesis grinned.

And somewhere in the building, a Third Class whispered to another, “I swear on Leviathan’s scales—I saw him twirl.”

~~~

Lazard is a patient man.

But even his patience had limits, and those limits were tested the moment he walked into his office and found a neatly stacked pile of confiscated memory cards, data sticks, and two entire security cameras sitting on his desk.

He stared at the pile.

He stared at the report sitting beside it, written in Angeal’s neat handwriting and labelled; “Incident Containment: Casual Dress Protocol Breach.”

Lazard rubbed his temples. “Why do I get the feeling I’m about to regret reading this…” He skimmed the report.

Paused.

Went back.

Read it twice.

Slowly placed the paper down and removed his glasses. “…Sephiroth wore… a sequined dress.”

Angeal, standing in front of the desk with the posture of a man resigned to fate, cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”

“And he… twirled?”

Angeal’s expression twitched. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Lazard leaned back in his chair. “And carried Genesis… bridal-style.”

“Yes.”

Lazard closed his eyes for a long moment.

“…Is the footage gone?”

“Yes.”

Lazard opened one eye. “All of it?”

A faint hesitation. “…Most of it.”

Lazard sighed the sigh of someone who was absolutely going to pretend he saw nothing. “Very well. For the sake of everyone’s sanity—and the Shinra PR department—this incident is officially classified as ‘Non-operational Recreational Error.’”

Angeal nodded solemnly. “Understood.”

As Angeal left the office, Lazard muttered under his breath, “I’m not paid enough for this.”

Unfortunately, nothing in Shinra stayed secret long enough to stop a Turk from commenting.

Reno leaned against a hallway wall, grinning like a fox who had found the password to gossip heaven. Rude stood beside him, stoic but with the faintest shake of his shoulders—his version of laughing.

Sephiroth, Zack, and Genesis walked past on their way to the training floor.

Reno whistled. “Yo, Seph. Heard you were missin’ a dress? Want us to check Lost & Found?”

Zack choked mid-step.

Genesis immediately put on his sunglasses to hide his smirk.

Sephiroth stopped walking. Slowly turned his head.

Reno’s grin widened. “Relax, big guy. I ain’t judgin’. Honestly? Heard you pulled it off.”

Rude nodded. A single, solemn nod.

Sephiroth stared at Reno. “Your information regarding the event is incorrect.”

“Oh? Which part?”

“…The part where you continue speaking.”

Reno raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. But if any more footage turns up, the Turks claim copyright.”

Zack leaned close to Reno as they passed. “Dude. He twirled.”

Reno let out a strangled laugh. “No way.”

“Yes way.”

Rude nodded again, deeply impressed.

Sephiroth considered turning around to end them both, but Angeal called from the training room, saving their lives.

Zack bounced excitedly as soon as the door closed behind them.

“Okay, okay—you have to show me how you did it.”

“No.” Sephiroth didn’t even look up from adjusting his gloves.

“C’moooon. It was majestic!” Zack insisted. “Like—like a mako-powered meteor of FABULOUSNESS.”

Genesis burst out laughing. “I would pay money to see this again.”

Sephiroth glared. “I was intoxicated. Severely.”

“Exactly,” Zack said. “So we need to reconstruct the conditions!”

“No,” Angeal said sharply. “We absolutely do not.”

But Zack had already spun on one heel, arms out, mimicking the pose.

“Like this, right? And then you kinda—whoosh!”

He attempted a twirl.

Attempted. Zack’s foot caught on absolutely nothing at all, and he went flying.

Genesis applauded.

Angeal sighed.

Sephiroth looked offended on behalf of physics.

“Zack,” he said calmly, “stop.”

Zack popped back up immediately. “I can do it! I swear! One more time—for science!”

“No,” Sephiroth repeated.

Zack twirled again—this time staying upright. “There! See? That was almost it!”

“It was not.”

Genesis leaned forward like a sports commentator. “Try adding hip movement.”

Zack did.

And fell again.

Sephiroth pinched the bridge of his nose. “Zackary. Enough.”

“But Seph—it’s important to the scientific community!”

“What community?!” Genesis demanded, laughing.

“The community of people who like seeing Seph look fabulous!”

Sephiroth stiffened. “…I do not look ‘fabulous.’”

“You looked spectacular,” Genesis said with a flourish. “But in fairness, the dress was designer.”

Sephiroth exhaled sharply. “This conversation is over.”

Zack grinned. “Sooo… one more spin?”

Sephiroth glared.

Zack immediately stopped.

After an hour of drills, sparring, and Zack trying very hard not to laugh every time Sephiroth moved too gracefully, the group finally wrapped up.

As they headed toward the exit, Zack whispered, “So, scientifically speaking… your center of balance must’ve been incredible in that dress.”

Sephiroth didn’t answer.

He simply walked calmly ahead—shoulders high, back straight, and with a faint, unmistakable sway of confidence.

Angeal blinked.

Genesis stared.

Zack’s jaw dropped. “He—he’s DOING THE WALK…!”

Genesis whispered reverently, “By the Goddess… he is.”

Sephiroth kept walking as if he had no idea what they were saying.

He knew.

Oh, he absolutely knew.

And in that moment, all three realized; twirls or not — Sephiroth had always been fabulous.

~~~

The Shinra Public Relations team had an unofficial motto; “If we can’t hide it, monetize it.”

So when whispers of the incident reached their floor—whispers that involved the words “Sephiroth,” “dress,” and “unprecedented levels of sparkle”—the department gathered like sharks scenting mako in the water.

Director Reeves entered the meeting room already rubbing his forehead. “Tell me we’re not doing this.”

His assistant held up a folder. “Sir… this incident has created a 12% spike in social sentiment. People are calling Sephiroth ‘relatable.’”

Reeves froze. “…Relatable?”

“Yes. The top trending tags include #Dressiroth, #SephirothSlayed, and #GeneralGlam.”

Reeves sank into his chair. “We’re doomed.”

The head of marketing, Lana, beamed. “Sir, hear me out—what if we lean into this? A soft image campaign! ‘Even the strongest among us have fun too.’ Very approachable. Very humanizing.”

“Very suicidal,” Reeves muttered.

Graphic design eagerly slid a mock-up onto the table. It was a tasteful silhouette of Sephiroth—in the dress—with the slogan; “Shinra: Where Strength Meets Style.”

Reeves looked like he wanted to crawl under the table. “We are not using that.”

“Okay, okay,” design said, flipping to the next one. “How about; ‘Shinra — Empowering You to Shine.' Get it? Shine?”

Reeves put his face in his hands.

“And,” Lana added, “Rufus has already expressed interest in pushing a ‘flexible dress-code rebranding initiative.’”

Reeves’ soul left his body.

~~~

The next morning, every department received a formal company-wide memo.

From: Rufus Shinra, Vice President
Subject: Regarding Dress Code Flexibility
To All Shinra Personnel,
Recent internal events have highlighted an important truth: adaptability and confidence are core to Shinra’s identity. As such, effective immediately, Shinra will be reviewing and expanding its corporate dress code policies.
Key points under consideration:
Formal wear is not limited by traditional gender expectations.
Employees may express personal style so long as it “enhances company image.”
Sequins are now “conditionally permissible.”
Inspired by General Sephiroth’s bold fashion leadership, employees are encouraged to express individuality in attire.
Further details will follow pending consultation with the PR Department and relevant department heads.
Let us continue striving toward a more progressive and visually striking future.
—Rufus Shinra
Vice President, Shinra Electric Power Company
P.S. Staff are reminded that any recordings or images from unauthorized events are not to be distributed externally without my approval.

Sephiroth sat at his desk, the glow of the monitor reflecting in his eyes. The memo stared back at him, smug in its corporate formatting.

Absolute silence.

“…No.”

He deleted it.

It reappeared.

“…No.”

He deleted it again.

It reappeared, this time marked as 'Mandatory Reading'.

Sephiroth’s jaw tightened. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then curled into a fist. He stood up and left his office. He needed answers.

Meanwhile, across HQ…

Genesis had made himself comfortable, boots propped on his desk, memo pulled up on his own screen. His eyes sparkled with delight as he read Rufus’s decree.

“Ohhh, this is magnificent.” He flipped his hair with a flourish, basking in the imagined spotlight. “I always knew my influence would reshape Shinra.”

He leaned back, already sketching ideas in his mind. “Poetic couture… yes. A line of garments inspired by Loveless. Flowing capes, embroidered verses, dramatic collars. Each outfit a stanza, each accessory a metaphor.”

Genesis snapped his fingers, grinning. “Sephiroth may have walked the runway, but I will own it.” He stood, striking a pose as if the office itself were a stage. “The era of drab uniforms is over. Shinra will be reborn in silk and sonnets!”

Zack on the other hand, read his memo once.

Read it twice.

Then ran down the hallway yelling, “ANGEAL—THEY SAID SEQUINS ARE OKAY IF THEY ENHANCE COMPANY IMAGE!!!”

Angeal, halfway through a protein bar in his office, closed his eyes in despair as Zack barged in and came to a stop beside him with his PHS, proceeding to shove it into his face. “See Angeal!? Relaxed dress code! Seph wore that dress, Rufus saw it, and now everyone’s allowed to dress however they want. I’m thinking shorts. Maybe a tank top. SOLDIER casual!”

Angeal buried his face in his hands. “Sephiroth is going to kill him.”

Because Angeal knew his friend — Sephiroth didn’t inspire fashion revolutions. He tolerated them. And the idea that his midnight wardrobe change had sparked a company-wide policy? That was enough to send him on a warpath.

Angeal shot up from his chair. “He’s headed for Rufus’s office. If I don’t stop him, there’ll be blood. Or worse — another memo.”

Zack scrambled after him. “Wait, wait! I wanna see this!”

The halls of Shinra HQ were buzzing. SOLDIERs and executives alike whispered about the memo. Already, one admin walked past in pajama pants. Another strutted by in neon workout gear. A Turk muttered, “if Sephiroth doesn’t end Rufus, I will.”

Angeal stormed down the corridor, Zack hot on his heels.

“Mentor, slow down!” Zack called. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Angeal shot him a look. “Sephiroth. Rufus. In the same room. That’s the worst.”

They rounded the corner just in time to see Sephiroth striding toward the Vice President’s office. Every step was deliberate, every flick of silver hair a warning.

Employees flattened themselves against the walls, whispering. “He’s going to revoke the memo.”

“He’s going to revoke Rufus.”

Zack whispered to Angeal, “He looks like he’s about to duel the entire HR department.”

Angeal muttered, “And win. Sephiroth, where are you going?”

“To reverse this.”

“You can’t fight corporate policy.”

“I can.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Sephiroth didn’t slow. “He used the word ‘sequins.’ That is your fault.”

“My fault?!”

“You were present.”

“That doesn’t mean—Sephiroth! Stop!”

Rufus Shinra’s office was pristine, sunlight streaming through the tall windows. The Vice President sat behind his desk, smugly sipping coffee, clearly pleased with his “visionary” memo, when Sephiroth stormed into his office.

“General,” Rufus greeted sweetly, “how nice to see you. I assume you’ve read the memo?”

“You will retract it.” His voice was low, dangerous.

“Will I?” Rufus smiled. “The public loves you.”

Angeal rushed in behind him, already sweating. “Sephiroth, let’s… let’s talk this through. Rufus, maybe we can adjust the wording? Something less… sweeping?”

“I did not authorize a campaign.”

“Oh, I know. Your authorization is… optional.”

Sephiroth’s eye twitched. Just slightly.

Rufus leaned back. “Relax, General. No images will be released without your approval.”

“…Good.”

“But I will be circulating a follow-up memo titled ‘Dress for Success: A Shinra Initiative.’” Rufus added lightly, “You do realize that this only enhances your legend? Strength. Style. Mystery. The people adore it.”

Before Angeal could intervene, Zack burst in, grinning ear to ear. “Hey! If we’re doing new uniforms, how about beach day ones? Shorts, sandals, sunglasses—SOLDIER casual! Imagine Sephiroth with flip-flops!”

The room froze.

Sephiroth turned his head slowly, eyes locking on Zack. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. “…Flip-flops?”

Zack nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! Like, morale would skyrocket. We’d look approachable! Plus, I’d finally get to wear my board shorts to work.”

Rufus smirked. “Beach day uniforms… now that is visionary.”

Angeal groaned in despair. Sephiroth inhaled slowly and stared at Rufus for thirty seconds.

Then—

He walked out.

Slow, calm, and terrifying.

Rufus watched him go and murmured. “…He’s definitely plotting revenge.” He took another sip of coffee. “I look forward to it.”

Chapter Text

Sephiroth stood in front of the Shinra PR office, arms folded, jaw set, aura radiating the kind of quiet menace that could make seasoned SOLDIER operatives rethink their career choices. Inside, the PR team huddled around a whiteboard titled: “PROJECT: FABULOUS—Leaning Into the Dress Incident!”

One intern was sketching Sephiroth in his midnight dress, tagline: Confidence is Power. Another junior intern spotted Sephiroth through the glass wall and squeaked, “H-He’s here! He’s here—why is he here—”

The PR director straightened their tie. “We expected resistance. Remember: flattery buys us time.”

The double doors slammed open. Sephiroth entered, aura sharp enough to silence the entire room.

“General! Wonderful! We were just discussing your courageous defiance of conventional uniformity—”

Sephiroth cut in, voice smooth as a blade sliding from its sheath. “Terminate the campaign.”

The interns froze. One dropped their coffee. Another whispered, “He’s even scarier in person.”

But before Sephiroth could advance, Genesis spun dramatically from the center of the room, surrounded by sketches and fabric swatches.

“Ah, Sephiroth! You’ve arrived just in time to witness history.” He flourished a sketchpad. “Imagine: Loveless stitched into silk, collars that sing poetry, capes that billow with metaphor.
Shinra will not merely clothe its employees — it will immortalize them.”

Sephiroth’s eyes narrowed. “This is not fashion. This is folly.”

Genesis ignored him, striking a pose. “No, this is destiny.”

As more of the interns shrank, the director smiled shakily and inserted. “Oh, we can’t possibly terminate anything. The analytics are extraordinary. Engagement is up 600%. There are… fan edits.”

Sephiroth’s eyebrow twitched. “Fan… edits?”

Zack, standing behind him with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who’d gotten into the sugar jar, whispered loudly, “The one where you do the spin but with fairy sparkles? That one went viral in six minutes, sir.”

Genesis added, smirking, “Art inspires art, Sephiroth. Even when unintended.”

Sephiroth didn’t sigh, but the air around him did.

Angeal tried to mediate. “Everyone, calm down. Sephiroth, Genesis, let’s not terrify the interns. Rufus will—”

But Zack cut in, grinning. “Okay, hear me out: pajama Fridays! Everyone gets to wear PJs to work. Morale boost, comfort, productivity skyrockets!”

The interns blinked. One whispered, “That… actually sounds amazing.”

Genesis scoffed. “Pajamas? Please. We are sculpting poetry in fabric, not bedtime attire.”

Zack threw up his hands. “Fine, fine. Then how about battle armor but Hawaiian print? Imagine Sephiroth with palm trees on his pauldrons. Instant intimidation and vacation vibes.”

The room erupted in nervous laughter.

Sephiroth turned his gaze on Zack, voice colder than steel. “…Palm trees?”

Zack nodded eagerly. “Yeah! Like, you’d be unstoppable and stylish. People would fear you, but also think, ‘Wow, he’s approachable. He probably surfs.’”

Genesis clapped his hands dramatically. “Yes! SOLDIER as the tide, flowing with fashion! Hawaiian couture meets destiny!”

Angeal buried his face in his hands with a groan and prayed for divine intervention.

The conference room is already a battlefield long before any actual enemies arrive. “Picture it!” Genesis declares, sweeping an arm out like he’s unveiling the Sistine Chapel and not a whiteboard covered in increasingly unhinged sketches. “Our celebrated General, bathed in ocean light—heroic, enigmatic, edible—”

“You are never using that word for me again.” Sephiroth’s voice could freeze mako. He stands rigidly at the table, every muscle poised as though someone forced him into the room at gunpoint.

One brave intern nods vigorously. “R-right, no ‘edible’. But the summer campaign is locked in, so we, uh, need beach imagery.”

Zack is leaning dangerously far back in his chair, waving a hand. “What about props? A surfboard with the Shinra logo! Or— ooh! —Sephiroth holding a beach umbrella like a sword! Actually, no, as a sword.”

Sephiroth turns and gives him a flat stare. “Why would I hold an umbrella.”

“Because it’d be cute!” Zack beams.

Angeal rubs his temples, already halfway through regretting every life decision that led him here. “We are not putting a six-foot sword next to a flotation device. Also—Genesis, stop circling the word 'shirtless.' Stop it.”

Genesis hums innocently, still circling.

“This is a professional setting, Genesis,” Angeal insists, trying to corral him toward the door like one would wrangle an especially theatrical goat. “And none of you should be dragging Sephiroth into publicity stunts without—”

The door cracks open.

A small, trembling intern peeks inside. Clearly a new one—wide-eyed, uniform crisp, absolutely unaware of how fast this room will break him.

“Um. E-excuse me?”

Five sets of glowing mako eyes turn toward him in perfect unison.

He emits a sound normally reserved for prey animals and visibly considers passing out.

Angeal steps in before the kid expires. “It’s all right. What is it?”

The intern swallows hard. “Director Heidegger—he’s, uh—demanding to meet with all SOLDIER Firsts. Immediately.”

A groan goes around the room like a shockwave.

“Tell him we’re busy,” Genesis says instantly. “Tell him Sephiroth is in makeup.”

“I am not,” Sephiroth says.

Zack slaps the table. “Oh! We should do makeup!”

“We are leaving,” Angeal declares, grabbing Zack by the collar and making a second attempt at dragging Genesis, who clings dramatically to a chair leg.

But before the intern can flee, Scarlet strides in with the unfailing confidence of a woman who believes every room belongs to her.

“Oh, good, you’re all here.” She sweeps past the poor intern, nearly flattening him with the door. “If PR is wasting this much manpower, I assume we’re budgeting for a calendar now? If so, I insist on handling wardrobe.”

“No,” Angeal says, at the exact same moment Genesis says, “Yes,” and Zack says, “A calendar sounds fun!”

Sephiroth stands. “I am leaving.”

Scarlet blocks him. “Not until we discuss quarterly optics, darling. The public adores you—”

“This is precisely the problem.”

Chaos blooms. Three separate arguments erupt. The PR team sits helplessly scribbling notes. Genesis has acquired a marker and is now sketching Scarlet’s concept ideas on the whiteboard. Zack is trying to convince Angeal that beach posing counts as endurance training. Sephiroth looks like he’s calculating the fastest structural collapse he could trigger to escape.

The frazzled intern, having delivered his message, quietly sinks to the floor behind the door in silent defeat.

Meanwhile, in his office, Lazard sits at his desk, serenely sipping his tea as he reads the mountain of emails descending upon him; frantic PR pleas, Scarlet’s all-caps wardrobe demands, three separate complaints from Facilities about “shouting that sounds like someone being repeatedly thrown against a wall,” and finally— Heidegger’s furious email blinked at the top.

'Meeting. NOW. Explain this chaos.'

Lazard sighed, calmly adjusts his glasses, and typed a simple reply. 'Acknowledged. I will attend shortly.'

He stood, taking his time, as if the world wasn’t collapsing in the PR department. He does not hurry. He does not change pace. He absolutely does not want to be there.

And thus, with perfect tranquility befitting a man who knows what awaits him is a trainwreck, Lazard walks straight into the storm.

The conference room reserved for “high-priority departmental coordination” already smells like fear, sweat, and something faintly electrical — probably from the overhead lights flickering in protest.

Heidegger slams a stack of crumpled papers onto the table with enough force to send several PR personals flinching in their seats.

“HR and PR insist we acknowledge the incident!” he bellowed. “But I say—THE GENERAL WEARING A DRESS IS A THREAT TO AUTHORITY!”

Scarlet lounged back, legs crossed, examining her nails.

“Oh please, Heidegger. If anyone could make a cocktail dress look lethal, it’s Sephiroth. I say we mass-produce it.”

Heidegger turns an alarming shade of red, somewhere between “boiled lobster” and “emergency evacuation alarm.”

“WE ARE NOT MASS-PRODUCING DRESSES FOR SOLDIER!” he booms.

“Just for Sephiroth?” Genesis offers, tapping a finger to his chin thoughtfully.

“Genesis,” Angeal hisses.

“What? I’m being helpful.”

Heidegger slams his fist onto the table again. “THE PUBLIC IS DEMANDING A STATEMENT! WE MUST CLARIFY THAT THE GENERAL WAS UNDER—UNDER—” He searches for a word that won’t get him sued. He cannot find one. “—UNUSUAL CIRCUMSTANCES.”

She ignored him. “Picture it: Shinra’s Elite SOLDIER line—sleek, dramatic, and possibly flame-retardant. You could even get a battle skirt, Heidegger. Hide those knees you’re so sensitive about.”

“My knees are NONE OF YOUR CONCERN!”

Zack whispered to Angeal, “Are his knees really that bad—?”

“Zack.”

“Right—professionalism. Sorry.”

Genesis leaned toward Sephiroth. “If nothing else, it’s entertaining watching them argue about your legs.”

Sephiroth muttered, “This is a nightmare. If this discussion continues, someone will lose a hand.”

Half the room stops breathing.

Scarlet grins wider. “Oh, darling. That’s the energy that sells.”

Heidegger points at Sephiroth like he’s pointing at a bomb that has begun ticking. “This attitude is EXACTLY why we need damage control!”

He begins pacing, sweeps up the stack of incident reports, flings them across the table like he’s dealing cards in Hell.

“THE GENERAL,” he growls, “SHOULD NOT BE ASSOCIATED WITH—” He gestures wildly, “—GLITTER, SATIN, OR COCKTAIL SLITS UP TO THE HIP!”

Zack raises a hand. “Actually, it was a mini dress—” Angeal clamps a hand over Zack’s mouth.

And right then, as if summoned by a scheduling demon, the door opens. Lazard steps inside, serene as a monk walking into a burning tavern.

He takes in the scene: Heidegger red-faced and shouting. Papers everywhere. Scarlet lounging like an amused predator. Genesis sketching new dress concepts in the margins of the complaint forms. Zack struggling heroically against Angeal’s hand clamp. Sephiroth staring at the ceiling, quietly dissociating. PR personals silently updating their resumes.

Lazard exhales softly. “...I see we’ve begun without me.” He walks to his seat with the dignity of a man who has surrendered to fate.

“Director Heidegger,” he says gently, “your email said this was an urgent matter regarding departmental cohesion.”

“IT IS!” Heidegger roars. “OUR GENERAL HAS BECOME A MEME.”

Lazard gives a polite nod. “Yes, I noticed. The—ah—‘Sephiroth Sunset Sashay’ edit is trending at four million views.”

A PR intern quietly dies inside.

Scarlet claps. “Four point two! And climbing.”

Heidegger looks moments away from flipping the table.

“We need a strategy,” Lazard says calmly. “So—let’s begin by identifying our priorities.”

“PRIORITY ONE,” Heidegger booms, slamming the papers again, “STOP THE PUBLIC FROM THINKING SOLDIER WEARS DRESSES.”

A long, painful pause.

Genesis raises a finger.

“Counterpoint – maybe we let them think that.”

Heidegger screams into his hands.

Lazard folds his hands on the table, posture calm in a way that feels like a challenge to the chaos around him.

“Let’s take a breath,” he says gently.

No one takes a breath.

He clears his throat. “Director Heidegger, PR has asked for collaboration. Scarlet, you have… a very distinct aesthetic. Let’s gather ideas before making demands.”

Scarlet smirks. “Oh darling, I don’t make demands. I simply expect competence.”

PR Manager Eli — who has been silently observing the proceedings with the haunted look of a man who’s read every complaint form twice — stiffens. He adjusts his glasses, pushes forward a folder, and speaks for the first time.

“Madam Scarlet,” he begins cautiously, “while your… enthusiasm… for brand cohesion is appreciated, PR will retain leadership of the campaign strategy. However—” he adds quickly but firmly, “we would welcome your preliminary concepts for review.”

Scarlet goes still.

The temperature in the room drops by several degrees.

“You want me,” she says slowly, “to submit my vision for approval.”

Eli does not flinch. “Re—review,” he corrects, voice steady. “By PR.”

The silence is suffocating. Even Sephiroth looks over, mildly curious about which death this man has chosen today.

Scarlet stands, heels clicking like gunshots.

“Eli,” she purrs, descending toward him with predatory grace, “I don’t think you understand how Shinra functions. I don’t take my ideas to a committee. Committees take their ideas to me.”

Eli squares his shoulders, tucks the folder closer, and stands his ground.

“With respect, Madam,” he says, “PR has been cleaning up the 'kurage drone' crisis for three months. We are capable of handling a campaign without your—”

“Careful.” Scarlet’s smile sharpens at the mention of that particular weapons project that she had to cancel.

Genesis leans over to Zack and whispers, “Oh, he’s done for.”

Zack whispers back, “Should we stop her?”

“No, no, let him finish the scene.”

Angeal, horrified, tries to intercept. “Scarlet. Eli. Let’s all sit down—”

But Scarlet steps even closer to the PR manager, voice a velvet threat. “You refuse me,” she says, “and you refuse Shinra’s 'future vision'.”

Eli meets her eyes. “No,” he says. “I refuse to let a weapons designer dictate corporate communications.”

Zack chokes.

Genesis claps once, delighted.

Even Sephiroth raises an eyebrow.

Heidegger freezes like someone paused him in mid-bellow.

And Scarlet—

—Scarlet’s smile becomes very, very thin. “Eli,” she murmurs. “Do you enjoy your job?”

“Yes,” he says instantly. “Very much. And I’d like to continue doing it. Which is why PR cannot lose control of this rollout.”

Scarlet opens her mouth to detonate—

But Lazard steps smoothly between them like a man who’s broken up this exact argument before. “Madam Scarlet,” he says warmly, “surely your expertise can elevate PR’s framework. Collaboration, not replacement.”

“Collaboration,” she repeats, flatly.

Angeal backs Lazard up, hands up in a calming gesture. “Scarlet, we all know your ideas land well with the board. If you share concepts first, PR can integrate them properly. That means your vision stays polished—exactly as you prefer.”

A dangerous glint flickers in Scarlet’s eyes. She is unconvinced.

Which is when Genesis, of all people, swoops in. He flips his hair, steps between them with dramatic flair, and announces. “Why not let Scarlet create the premium line of visuals while PR manages the standard campaign? Two branches. One aesthetic empire.” He sweeps a hand over the table like he’s presenting a haute couture runway. “Scarlet’s high-fashion Sephiroth concept for elite promos—PR’s more… accessible materials for the common folk.”

Scarlet pauses.

Thinks.

Slowly… the predatory edge softens. “A dual-tier campaign,” she muses. “My designs as the luxury branding… and PR handles the mass-market residues.”

Eli blinks. He does the internal math. It works. “That arrangement is acceptable,” he says. “As long as PR retains oversight on messaging and public release.”

Scarlet considers him again.

This time, the smile is less lethal. “Well, well,” she purrs. “It seems you do have a spine, Eli. How refreshing.”

He releases a breath so slowly it’s barely audible.

The rest of the room exhales with him.

Lazard nods, satisfied. “Excellent. We have a compromise.”

Angeal finally lowers his hands, relieved. Zack fist-pumps quietly. Genesis looks insufferably proud. Sephiroth looks like he’s praying this ends soon so he can go back to stabbing things that deserve it.

Heidegger, meanwhile, has remained frozen this whole time. When he finally snaps out of it, he slams the table again. “WAIT—WHAT ABOUT THE DRESS!?” he bellows.

Everyone groans.

The meeting ends with the desperate, exhausted finality of a group of people who’ve narrowly avoided both a lawsuit and a homicide charge.

Lazard clears his throat. “So. The official decision: SOLDIER’s participation in a controlled photoshoot will frame the… incident as a scripted PR event. A demonstration of versatility and approachability.”

Heidegger grumbles, but grudgingly accepts.

Scarlet is already sketching dress redesigns.

Genesis is already pitching angles and lighting.

Zack is bouncing.

Eli is quietly praying.

Angeal is reconsidering his retirement plan.

And Sephiroth—

Sephiroth sits perfectly still, hands steepled, glowing eyes half-lidded in profound, dangerous contemplation. “…A mandatory photoshoot,” he repeats softly.

Everyone pretends not to hear the doom vibrations in his tone.

~~~

OUTSIDE THE MEETING ROOM
The doors shut.

The hallway is blessedly quiet.

Genesis immediately starts talking.

“This is brilliant. An entire fashion-forward campaign starring SOLDIER? Aesthetics, symbolism, mythmaking—”

“Genesis,” Angeal warns.

Zack slings an arm cheerfully around Sephiroth’s shoulders before anyone can stop him. “C’mon, it won’t be that bad!”

Sephiroth turns his head very slowly toward Zack.

Zack’s smile falters a millimeter.

“What,” Sephiroth says, in the soft, measured tone of someone deciding between two different brands of murder, “is not bad about mandatory posing.”

“W-well—uh—there’ll be props?”

“That,” Sephiroth says, “makes it worse.”

Zack snorts. “Okay, yeah, fair.”

Genesis tosses his hair. “You’re all being dramatic. It’s a few photographs. With art direction. And curated wardrobe. And conceptual themeing—”

Sephiroth stops walking. Everyone else stops too. He closes his eyes. Takes a breath. Opens them. “Explain,” he says. “What they meant by ‘curated wardrobe.’”

Genesis smiles like a fox.

“Oh, you know. Something sharper. Something sleek. Something—”

“No.”

“—tailored.”

“No.”

“—possibly sleeveless.”

“Genesis.”

“—with a leg slit.”

Sephiroth’s jaw flexes visibly. Angeal grabs Genesis by the collar on instinct. “No leg slits.”

Genesis pouts. “Sephiroth pulls them off!”

“That is precisely the problem,” Angeal mutters.

Scarlet’s voice drifts from behind them — she’s already on a phone call, strutting down the hall like she owns it.

“Yes, yes, schedule the fitting. No, not the prototype — the couture line. If it doesn’t sparkle like a mako reactor meltdown, it goes back.”

Sephiroth’s eye twitches.

A few more steps down the hallway and Sephiroth abruptly stops again.

Zack bumps into him. “Whoa! Hey, you good?”

Sephiroth’s voice is eerily calm. “Zack.”

“Yeah?”

“If,” Sephiroth says, “they put me in another dress… I want you to know that the next incident will not be an accident.”

Zack hesitates. Then pats him on the back. “Buddy… if they put you in another dress, I’ll be right there with you. Solidarity. You won’t go down alone.”

Sephiroth blinks. “…You would wear one as well.”

Zack shrugs, grinning. “Sure! Why not? Could be fun.”

Genesis bursts out laughing.

Angeal looks like he swallowed a staple.

Sephiroth stares at Zack for a long, unreadable second.

Finally—

A single sigh escapes him. “…At least,” he murmurs, “I would not be the only one.”

Zack beams so hard it could power Midgar.

And somewhere down the hall, Eli the PR manager hears this exchange, drops his folder, and whispers, “dear gods… we’re going to need wardrobe four now.”

Chapter Text

The PR team set up a full studio: backdrops, reflectors, wind machines, even a glitter cannon allegedly for “dramatic effect.”

The studio is buzzing like someone pumped caffeine directly into the ventilation system. PR staff sprint between lights and makeup stations, Scarlet is rearranging everything to her liking, and someone has already set off a fire alarm by plugging too many ring lights into one outlet.

Zack bursts in with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever in a mako reactor. “GOOD MORNING, EVERYBODY!” He trips over a light cable. “—I meant to do that!”

Eli, clutching his clipboard like a stress talisman, gestures wildly at the chaos. “Genesis! You cannot move the backdrop again, the calibration—”

Genesis waves him off while standing atop a ladder, adjusting fabric like he’s decorating a palace for royalty. “If the backdrop does not serve the subject, it must evolve.”

Eli makes a noise that may be a prayer or a scream.

Scarlet struts in to view, holding a garment bag like it contains the secrets of the universe. “Boys,” she announces, “the future of Shinra’s image begins now.”

Zack peeks over her shoulder. “Oh hey, it’s… sparkly.”

Angeal rubs his forehead. “Scarlet. Tell me you didn’t.”

She smirks. “Oh, I very much did.” She unzips the bag.

Revealing—

A sleek, obsidian-black outfit with silver accents so sharp they look like they could cut air. High collar. Structured shoulders. Elegant lines. A long coat split down each side for freedom of movement… or dramatic billowing. Enough subtle shimmer to catch the lights without going “full disco ball.”

Genesis gasps. “I love it.”

Zack whistles. “That’s… actually super cool.”

Angeal sags in relief. “It’s… not a dress.”

Scarlet beams. “Of course not. The dress is for look two.”

Angeal’s soul leaves his body.

Sephiroth arrives, expression carved from frozen marble.

“This is unnecessary.”

“Perfect! The world MUST see these cheekbones—turn slightly! Yes! Yes!” The photographer snapped a dozen pictures before he’d even finished speaking.

Sephiroth actually took a step back. But Scarlet appears and thrusts the garment bag forward. “Fitting time.”

Zack came closer and whispered. “It’s okay, sir, just pretend it’s a mission!”

“It is a mission. One I never agreed to.”

Genesis, already in the provided coat-cape hybrid (“Because he stole the best outfit before the rest of us could”), struck a pose. “Sephiroth, darling, just embrace the aesthetic.”

“I refuse.” Sephiroth gives him a look that could peel wallpaper. “I am not—”

“Nope,” Zack says, pushing him gently toward the changing room. “You survived the meeting, you can survive clothes.”

Sephiroth mutters something about “unnecessary indignities” and disappears behind the curtain. Seconds pass.

Minutes. A zipper. A sigh.

A quiet thud as something heavy hits the wall. Probably his forehead.

Everyone holds their breath.

Then—

The curtain slides open.

And every single person in the room goes completely, absolutely, catastrophically silent.

Because Sephiroth looks— ridiculously, dangerously, perfect.

The outfit fits like it was custom-engineered to flatter a genetically enhanced war deity. Silver hair cascading. Coat swaying like a storm cloud. Eyes glowing brighter under studio light. Eli drops his clipboard.

A makeup artist walks directly into a light stand.

“Oh, that’s illegal.” Genesis fans himself with a script page.

“I told you he’d photograph like a god.” Scarlet is smug beyond mortal measure.

“This is going to break the internet.” Angeal stares, horrified.

Sephiroth glances at them all, expression blank. “…Is it acceptable?”

Three PR interns faint.

“YES,” Eli wheezes, scrambling up. “Yes—yes! DO NOT MOVE! WE NEED TO ADJUST NOTHING—PERFECT—OH GOD—” He sprints to the nearest camera setup like his life depends on it.

Zack leaps to Sephiroth’s side, vibrating with excitement. “Dude! Dude!! Look at you!” He gestures wildly. “You look like you’re about to either save the world or destroy a runway! Or both!”

“…Why do I need to ‘destroy a runway.’” Sephiroth stares at him.

“It’s a compliment!”

“I do not understand it.”

“You don’t have to! Just own it!” Zack puts his hands on Sephiroth’s shoulders, bouncing. “Alright, buddy, listen. When you walk out there, just channel your inner… uh… you.”

“That is what concerns me,” Sephiroth says.

Genesis laughs. “If he channels his inner him, we’ll lose half the equipment.”

Scarlet interjects, “No destruction until after look three.”

“THERE ARE THREE LOOKS?!” The photographer squeaks.

“Four, if he behaves.” Scarlet smirks at the PR manager. Sephiroth's eyes narrows.

Zack claps once. “Okay! First pose! Arms crossed, serious face—no wait, that’s already your whole vibe—try, like… relaxed murder!”

Eli screams off-camera, “ZACK FAIR, STOP GIVING INSTRUCTIONS!”

“You got it!” Zack absolutely does not got it.

Sephiroth sighs, steps onto the set, and—

The wind machine kicks in. His coat sweeps out behind him like a cinematic tornado. His hair catches the light like silver fire. His eyes glow like twin mako suns.

“…We are not ready for this level of beauty.” Genesis whispers reverently.

“Shinra’s profits are going to triple.” Scarlet fans herself.

Eli sits down on an apple crate that spawned from nowhere, head in hands. “Oh gods,” he whispers, “this photoshoot is going to start a cult.”

“Alright! General! Just—uh—stand there. Naturally. Calm. Neutral.” The photographer Kim, claps his hands like a panicked kindergarten teacher trying to wrangle gods.

Sephiroth stands perfectly still.

Too still.

“Not… execution-still,” Eli squeaks. “More—more approachable.”

Sephiroth adjusts by tilting his chin one millimeter. Every PR intern instinctively ducks behind something.

Zack waves both hands. “No no no, buddy! Try thinking ‘I don’t want to kill you, but I might if you’re annoying.’”

“That is simply… my face.” Sephiroth turns his head slowly toward him.

“Exactly!”

The wind machine flares to life again, blowing Sephiroth’s hair into a silver cascade. The lights hit him just right. He shifts his weight—just a fraction— hand on Masamune’s hilt for balance. And the camera catches it.

The Look.

Smoldering.

Predatory.

Unintentional seduction with a side of potential homicide. Eli’s soul leaves his body so fast it causes a draft. “Oh no,” he whispers. “Oh gods no.”

“That shot is going on the cover.” Genesis fans himself aggressively.

“Dude!! You SMOULDERED!”

“I did nothing.”

“Please don’t encourage him.” Angeal, horrified.

Scarlet practically purrs. “Frame it.”

“Okay!” Kim calls out with hysterical enthusiasm. “Group photos! Team cohesion! Friendly faces! No weapons!”

The three SOLDIER First Class stare at him like he just told them to breathe underwater. And then, Zack practically launches himself onto the platform like a man born to be televised. Genesis strolls forward with theatrical poise, as though he’s been waiting his whole life for a spotlight this dramatic. Angeal, meanwhile, looks like a man making peace with his fate—slow, reluctant steps, a faint sigh, and the distinct aura of someone who deeply misses the days when SOLDIER was about combat and honor instead of… whatever this is.

Eli stands ready with the styling team—a battalion of makeup artists, fabric wranglers, and one woman armed with a lint roller like it’s a weapon of war.

Zack beams as Eli approaches him with the custom wardrobe. “Your color palette is cool violets with silver detailing. Sleek, bold, heroic. Very you. Violet noble of the round table.”

“Shape me into a legend, Eli!” Zack flexes proudly.

His outfit is a perfect blend of SOLDIER athleticism and polished glamour—a form-fitting high-collared top that hugs his torso just right, sleeves cut midway down his biceps so the lighting hits every line of muscle. Soft grey tones blend into rich violet accents, silver threads and accessories shimmering against the fabric in a way that borders on regal.

The makeup team adds an understated gleam to his cheekbones. Zack checks his reflection. “Oh yeah,” he nods. “I’d date me.”

Genesis mutters, “You already do.” He steps up as if expecting orchestral accompaniment. Eli gestures to the wardrobe with reverence.

“For you: solemn elegance, high grace. Red filigree, white-gold base. Strong silhouette. Poetic undertones. Prince of white and red.”

Genesis inhales like he’s being handed destiny.

The team dresses him in layered fabrics that flow like a desert wind—white-gold silk tailored to his frame, sweeping sleeves that narrow at the wrists, crimson filigree swirling across the chest and waist like living calligraphy. The lines give him height, presence, the kind of aristocratic grandeur he clearly believes he deserves.

When someone adds a golden cuff to his wrist, Genesis stares at his reflection and announces. “I am magnificent. Capture this soul-rending beauty before it fades.”

Zack whispers to Angeal, “He’s talking like that’s not how he always talks.”

Angeal’s outfit is draped more than tailored—soft, elegant, intellectual, clearly designed to contrast the other two’s flash and drama. The wardrobe team carries the pieces over like they’re terrified he might refuse them.

Eli approaches carefully. “Angeal… we were aiming for refined, contemplative strength. May I?”

Angeal sighs but nods. “Do what you must.”

They dress him in silk layers that drape across his shoulders and chest, loose and open yet tastefully dignified. Deep navy swathes of fabric fall from his arms, framing his broad shape; icy blue accents outline his sides and waist, subtly defining his silhouette without making him look like he belongs on a runway—which was the unspoken promise.

Minimal gold accessories gleam around his neck and arms, just enough contrast to add color without overwhelming him.

He looks like a warrior-turned-sage in some ancient epic.

He also looks deeply, profoundly uncomfortable.

“ANGEAL! YOU LOOK AMAZING, LIKE—like you teach at a magic university and also secretly slay gods on weekends!” Zack gushes.

“Zack, I am the god-slayer aesthetic today.” Genesis frowns.

The three approach the camera platform, each embodying a radically different energy; Zack, glowing, posing, finger guns loaded. Genesis, gliding, stern and princely, expression sculpted into classical tragedy. Angeal, standing as if awaiting a medical examination. And Sephiroth—already styled, already flawlessly imposing—watches the chaos with slow-building existential exhaustion.

Eli claps to get their attention. “Okay! Formation! Zack, center-left. Sephiroth... move closer to Zack. Genesis, center-right. Angeal—shoulders back, chin up—and perfect.”

“C’mon!! We got this!” Zack dives into position first, arm around Sephiroth’s shoulders.

Genesis slides in on Sephiroth’s other side, throwing a dazzling (completely rehearsed) smile. “Angle the chin slightly upward,” he whispers. “And try not to look like you’re about to eviscerate the camera.”

“That is my other face,” Sephiroth replies.

Before the cameras go off, Genesis quickly adjusts Zack’s elbow for “dramatic symmetry” before returning to Angeal's side as his friend tries to stand neutrally and somehow becomes the most photogenic of the four simply because he gives up resisting.

The camera lights flash.

Angeal now stands there like a man seeing his own obituary written in real time. Genesis poses with magnetic grace. Zack beams like a sun. Sephiroth glowers beautifully. Angeal dies internally.

Eli mutters to Kim, “is it bad that I’m scared these pictures are gonna break the server?”

“One hundred percent.” Kim whispers back.

Eli checks the preview screen and chokes. “This looks like a band poster for a group that only performs dramatic royal murders.”

Genesis perks up. “Oh! We could—”

“No!” three voices shout at once.

The mood in the studio is already a fragile Jenga tower of nerves—Zack vibrating with excitement, Genesis radiating princely smugness, Angeal holding himself together with the emotional equivalent of duct tape, and Eli trying to stave off a stroke.

Scarlet sways forward, heels clicking with the confidence of a woman who has never once doubted she could bully the planet into orbit. Every head turns as Scarlet intercepts Sephiroth's line of sight like she’s about to show him how to walk the runway herself, one hand on her hip, the other holding a garment bag at the ready. “Time for Look Two,” she declares.

Angeal looks like he wishes for a meteor strike. “No. Please. He’s done enough.”

But Scarlet is already unzipping the garment bag like she’s releasing a weapon. Out comes, a sleek, high-slit, dark emerald dress with structured shoulders, metallic accents, and a cut designed specifically to weaponize Sephiroth’s existence.

“This is ART.” Genesis gasps loudly.

“Bro… bro that’s gonna be FIRE—” Zack grins.

“Absolutely not.” Angeal.

“Absolutely yes.” Scarlet.

Sephiroth looks at it for a long, quiet moment. “You intend,” he says slowly, “for me to wear that.”

Scarlet smiles. “It’s elegant. Lethal. Dramatic. And it was created with your measurements in mind.”

“It would make for legendary photos.” Genesis leans toward him.

Angeal whispers urgently, “You don’t have to do this.”

Sephiroth considers.

He looks at Zack, who gives him a tiny encouraging thumbs-up. He looks at Genesis, who stares back with expectant artistic hunger. He looks at Scarlet, who will absolutely kill someone if she’s denied. He looks at Eli, who looks torn between offering encouragement and reconsidering this one moment in time.

Then—

With a sigh deep enough to echo through the Lifestream— Sephiroth slowly—slowly—turns his head toward Scarlet as if assessing whether this is a prank, a threat, or grounds for smiting.

“…No.” A simple word. Delivered with the finality of a guillotine.

Scarlet blinks. “Darling, you haven’t even—”

“No.”

Zack tries to help. “Hey, hey—not no, right? More like—like a maybe, or—”

Sephiroth doesn’t even glance at him. “It is a dress.”

Genesis folds his arms. “And? A work of art. I’d wear it.”

“That is not comforting,” Sephiroth replies.

Angeal steps in. “Let’s just—talk calmly—”

But Scarlet is already pushing the rack toward Sephiroth.

The PR team silently screams. Someone knocks over a light stand. A makeup artist faints.

“Imagine the headlines!” Scarlet insists. “The Silver General in Emerald Silk! A bold statement! A new era! I demand at least ten shots in—”

“NO.”

The lights flicker again. The heating system cuts off for no reason. A ceiling tile rattles ominously. Scarlet opens her mouth for round three, but Sephiroth has reached his limit. His expression doesn’t change, but the entire studio becomes aware—instinctively, biologically—that they’re in the presence of someone moments away from leaving the mortal realm entirely out of sheer annoyance.

He turns. Walks. Perfect posture, footsteps silent.

“Sephiroth?” Eli squeaks. “Wait—please—we still need the final poses—”

Then, the wind machine blasts at full power for some reason. And Sephiroth’s hair snapped backward like a silver flag in a hurricane.

Zack’s hair stood straight up. “WOO—HAHA—IT’S IN MY EYES!”

Genesis’s scarf flipped over his head.

Angeal sags in place like a man who had achieved inner peace by abandoning hope.

Then—

BOOM.

The glitter cannon went off prematurely. Everyone disappeared in a cloud of shimmering silver and gold debris.

When it cleared, Sephiroth stood motionless, glitter coating him from head to toe like an angry holiday ornament contemplating murder.

Kim whispered reverently. “Magnificent.”

The lights sputter out, reboot, then explode in a shower of sparks. The backdrop collapses. One of the cameras shuts itself off as if refusing to record what just happened.

And Sephiroth resumes walking away.

Scarlet shouts after him, “YOU’RE THROWING AWAY ICONOGRAPHY, DARLING!”

Sephiroth does not stop. Does not turn. Just raises a hand—not even dramatically, just in dismissal—and the entire hallway light system shorts out in a cascading blackout. He is gone.

“….I think he’s upset.” Zack braces his hands on his hips.

“I told you not to push him during a waning moon.” Genesis adjusts his scarf.

Angeal just massaging his temples and tiredly side eyes his friend. While Eli is on the brink of giving HR his two-week notice. And Scarlet pouts like a dethroned queen.

The studio remains frozen for a full three seconds after Sephiroth exits—
three seconds in which no one breathes, no one moves, and everyone collectively wonders if today is the day they finally lose their jobs, their minds, or both. No one moves. No one speaks. Someone whimpers.

Even the lights hesitate, flickering in existential sympathy. It’s unclear who breaks first, but in the back, an intern whispers, “Is… is it safe to breathe?”

And that is the moment Eli—PR manager, overworked saint, future burn-out statistic—
snaps.

“Move!” Eli shouts, instantly shattering the silence. The chaos erupts like a detonated Mako reactor.

Three lighting techs sprint toward the sparking ceiling rig.

“Why is it sizzling?!”

“It’s not supposed to sizzle!”

“Sephiroth walked past it—of course it’s sizzling!”

They try to put out the sparks with a fire blanket, only for the blanket to catch a small flame because the outlet is now actively fighting back.

Wardrobe assistants scramble to save the collapsing dress rack Scarlet knocked into when she rammed into it like a rhino with couture influence, after Sephiroth.

Wardrobe interns dive like soldiers on a battlefield.

“I’ve got it— I’ve got it— I DON’T GOT IT—”

“CATCH THE SEQUINS, FOR THE LOVE OF GAIA!”

Someone slides across the polished floor on their knees, clutching a shimmering sleeve like it’s a sacred relic.

A makeup artist lies half-slumped in her chair, having fainted during Sephiroth’s dramatic exit. Another waves a bottle of smelling salts under her nose.

“Wake up, Jessa!”

“I dreamed… he smoldered again…”

“That wasn’t a dream, sweetheart.”

On her revival, she immediately asks, “Did… did he see the second glitter palette?”

Eli shouts across the room, “HE BARELY SAW THE FIRST PALETTE.”

Zack grabs a roll of tape like it’s the Buster Sword and leaps into action.

“DON’T WORRY, I CAN FIX THE BACKDROP!”

“Zack,” a tech warns, “it’s torn down the middle—”

“Not if you BELIEVE!”

He slaps tape everywhere. Vertical strips. Diagonal strips. He tapes his own glove to the canvas. “ZACK, LET GO OF THE BACKDROP—YOU ARE PART OF IT NOW.”

Genesis stands with arms crossed, eyebrows arched in majestic disdain. “This lighting collapse is symbolic,” he declares. “The studio rejects Scarlet’s vision. It longs for harmony, artistry, balance—”

A tech shouts, “GENESIS, PLEASE STOP TALKING LIKE A SPIRITUAL WEATHER REPORT.”

“The sparks represent the volatile nature of creation—” Genesis ignores them, dramatically gesturing to the short-circuiting lights.

A bulb explodes overhead. Genesis smiles smugly. “See?”

Scarlet is not taking this meltdown quietly. “You fools! You let him LEAVE! The lighting was supposed to highlight the contours of the dress! MY dress!”

She lunges toward the lighting rig like she might fight it physically. Angeal intercepts her with gentle but immovable force.

“Scarlet,” he says through clenched teeth, “please stop screaming at the techs.”

“I WILL NOT.”

“Scarlet.”

“THE WORLD MUST SEE THAT DRESS!”

He lifts her—gently, politely—three inches off the ground.

“…Put me down.” She freezes, affronted.

“Only if you stop trying to rearrange the staff like chess pieces.”

She huffs but begrudgingly complies. For now.

Eli, in the center of the storm, rubs both hands over his face. Then down his face. Then over his hair. Then back over his face again.

“I—” He breathes in through his nose. “Lazard,” he says weakly, “is going to kill me.”

“With due respect, Eli—Lazard doesn’t have the emotional energy to kill you.” Genesis pats him on the shoulder.

“Yeah, man, he’s probably too tired.” Zack nods reassuringly.

Angeal adds, “He may sigh at you. Deeply.”

“…That’s worse.” Eli covers his eyes.

~~~

Lazard Deusericus has survived many things in his career at Shinra; SOLDIER’s bad press cycles. Hollander’s unhinged rants. Hojo’s existence. Genesis’s dramatic poetry emails at 3 AM. Zack’s enthusiasm. Sephiroth’s silence.

But nothing—nothing—has prepared him for this morning.

He sits in his office, trying to enjoy his fourth coffee. He has not tasted the first three. He doubts he will taste this one.

His terminal chimes once. Then twice. Then six times in rapid succession from HR, PR, and Scarlet (in that order, though Scarlet sent the most). Lazard stares at the blinking notifications as if they are omens.

They are.

He taps the screen. The subject lines appear like the Horsemen of Administrative Apocalypse. He reads the subject lines:
-LIGHTING FAILURE DURING SHOOT—URGENT
-SEPHIROTH LEFT THE PREMISES
-WE NEED A STATEMENT ABOUT THE DRESS
-Lazard PLEASE COME DOWN HERE
-LAZARD ANSWER YOUR DAMN MAIL
-SEPHIROTH REFUSED MY DESIGN. CANCEL THE REST OF PR’S BUDGET.

Lazard’s face does not change. He places his mug down very gently, very precisely, as if on sacred ground. He inhales. He exhales.

He considers quitting. He considers faking his own death. He considers letting Hojo “accidentally” turn him into a frog so he can hop away from his responsibilities forever.

Then he stands.

He straightens his coat. And he walks out of his office with the steady, solemn steps of a man going to face a firing squad.

The doors to the PR department's designated photoshooting studio slide open. Lazard takes one step inside.

Stops.

And his expression—usually cool, composed, and politically unflappable—cracks. Just a little.
Just enough. The studio looks like a war crime in progress; toppled lights, a rig lies on the floor like a dead mechanical spider. Tangled cables, an intern is crying because they’re wrapped in them like a malfunctioning marionette. A smoking outlet with a tech is fanning it with a clipboard. Another is praying to Ifrit.

Scarlet yelling at a terrified intern. “IF YOU DROP THAT DRESS I WILL DROP YOU OUT A WINDOW!”

The intern nods in fear. They are holding a single sparkly glove like it’s a bomb.

Zack waving a roll of duct tape like a sword. “I CAN FIX IT!”

“ZACK, PLEASE STOP FIXING THINGS,” a tech pleads.

“NO! I WAS BORN FOR THIS!”

Genesis practicing regal disappointment in the corner. He has arranged his scarf in a perfect drape. He is glaring at the broken lights as if commanding them to feel shame. Someone asks if he can help. He answers with a, “my presence is help.”

And Angeal looking DONE in capital letters; his arms are crossed. His brow is furrowed. His soul has left his body. He has accepted his fate.

No.

No no no. No. No.

He considers turning around and leaving. He considers pretending he took the wrong elevator. He considers lying down on the floor and ceasing to exist.

But Eli spots him.

And it’s over.

Eli nearly tackles him. “Director—sir—Sephiroth rejected Look Two and then all this happened and the infrastructure is literally fighting us— the building may be possessed—we’re not sure yet—” A bulb pops overhead like a punctuation mark.

Behind him, a tech yells, “THE CAMERA JUST TURNED ITSELF OFF AGAIN—WHY DOES IT HAVE FEELINGS?!”

Another reports, “THE BACKDROP IS TRYING TO FALL ON ZACK.”

“IT’S MAKING THREATS!” Zack calls from behind the taped-up canvas.

Eli points frantically. “We’re trying to stabilize the situation. We— we can rebuild. Maybe. Possibly. If the gods are merciful.”

Genesis flips his hair. “The gods abandoned this building hours ago.”

Lazard massages his temples, already exhausted. “…Where is Sephiroth now?”

“Leaving the building.” Angeal answers.

“Of course he is.” Lazard pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ll speak to him—” But he doesn't get to finish, because—

The doors into the studio slam opens again. A frantic Turk steps out. “Director Lazard—you’re requested upstairs. Immediate meeting. Hojo and the President are waiting.”

“…Wonderful.” Every muscle in Lazard’s jaw tightens.

Eli salutes him with the despair of a man saying goodbye to a fallen comrade.

~~~

As Lazard leaves to attend the meeting from hell. Scarlet, now released from Angeal’s hold, paces like a tiger.

“This is sabotage,” she snarls. “My visionary brilliance—undermined.”

Angeal quietly steps between her and the nearest tech, just in case. Scarlet snaps her fingers. “You! You, PR man—Eli—tell me exactly who approved the studio layout. I want their name. No—ALL their names. I demand the names of their ancestors.”

Eli squeaks. “Ma’am—please—”

She ignores him, staring at the damaged dress rack. “He dared reject Look Two. He dared.”

She taps a manicured nail on her chin. “Fine. We’ll escalate. If Sephiroth won’t wear the dress willingly, we’ll design something even more irresistible.”

Genesis mutters, “Gaia save us.”

“What’s more irresistible than THAT? Sequins? Fireworks??” Zack pondered aloud.

“…Both.” Scarlet’s eyes gleam.

Eli almost faints again. But a loud BZZZZZT-POP echoes overhead. Everyone freezes. One by one, the lights shut themselves off in dramatic, theatrical sequence, like a grand stage curtain falling.

Fwoom. Fwoom. Fwoom.

Then the backup lights flicker on— dim, uncertain, haunted, a tech stares up at the ceiling in horror. “The lights… are refusing to reset.”

Another shakes the breaker panel.

“It’s like—like the system is choosing to stay broken? Is that even POSSIBLE?”

The control panel flashes an error message: SYSTEM OVERRIDE: NOPE.

Eli stares at it. “…It’s learning.”

Angeal decides not to comment.

Meanwhile — down in the lobby, far from the chaos, Sephiroth strides through with absolute serenity.

Civilians part around him like he’s Moses and the lobby floor is the Red Sea. A receptionist timidly calls out, “G-General… um… do you need an escort…?”

“No,” Sephiroth says. His tone is calm. Even pleasant.

“Are you… coming back later?” a security guard asks.

“No.” He steps outside. The lobby lights flicker in relief once he’s gone.

A janitor watches him leave and mutters, “That is a man who fears nothing. Not even HR.”

Sephiroth walks off into the daylight, absolutely at peace with his decision to abandon the photoshoot, the dress, the malfunctioning lights, and the mortals screaming in his wake. He regrets nothing.

Not a thing. He does not look back. He never looks back.

~~~

Lazard enters the executive conference room like a prisoner being marched into an interrogation chamber.

Hojo is already pacing, mumbling rapid-fire calculations under his breath like a mad scientist trying to solve sin itself. President Shinra sits at the head of the table, fingers tented, expression equal parts annoyed and confused.

“Lazard,” the President says. “Explain.”

“This is a farce! A waste! A degradation of my perfect specimen! A DRESS?! You put my creation in a dress?!” Hojo slams a datapad onto the table.

“It was an HR-mandated PR incident response—”

“STOP SAYING WORDS I DON’T LIKE,” Hojo screeches.

Lazard tries again. “Sephiroth was cooperative until—”

“That’s the problem!” Hojo snaps. “Cooperative! He is a warrior, not a mannequin!”

The President waves a hand dismissively. “I don’t care what he wears. I care about the stock price. I’m told this is… trending?”

Lazard tightens his smile. “Yes, sir. Public engagement has increased by 480%.”

“Good! See? Let the boy wear dresses if it makes us money.”

“HE WILL NOT.” Hojo slams both palms on the table.

The President shrugs. “The internet already decided he did.”

Hojo’s eye twitches so hard the table almost vibrates.

Lazard tries to redirect before Hojo has a full aneurysm. “We simply need Sephiroth to return tomorrow for the remaining promotional shots—”

“NO.” Hojo jabs a finger at Lazard’s chest. “You will NOT expose my specimen to— to fabric-based debauchery.”

“…What?”

“He is engineered for war!” Hojo continues. “You are corrupting him with—photography! And… artistic themes!”

Lazard stares. “I assure you, General Sephiroth is in no danger from artistic themes.”

“Actually, Hojo, the fans like artistic themes.” The President adds.

Hojo rounds on him. “STOP USING THE WORD ‘FANS.’”

The President shrugs again. “Market research says enthusiasts prefer ‘fans.’”

Hojo looks physically ill.

Lazard steps in again, carefully diplomatic. “Sephiroth’s contract requires limited participation in company PR. We simply need him to complete the final session. I will debrief him myself and ensure cooperation.”

Hojo leans forward, glasses glinting. “IF HE WEARS ANOTHER DRESS, I WILL TURN YOU INTO A REACTOR MODULE.”

Lazard nods evenly. “Understood.”

The President clears his throat. “Good talk. Lazard, fix it. Make Sephiroth do the thing. Dismissed.”

Lazard Leaves the Room

He walks out slowly. Calmly. Quietly. Then the door shuts behind him and he presses his forehead against the wall. “…I hate my job.”

A Turk walking by pauses. “Long day, sir?”

Lazard sighs. “It’s not even noon.”