The Sight of Sephiroth

Palmer was the least respected executive in Shinra. His only competition for that title was that goody-two-shoes, Reeve. He poured the tea, then looked around for the butter. Shit. It was empty.

"Oh dear, oh dear… A man of my refined tastes running out of butter! Shorn of its proper accompaniment, this tea… might as well be boiled pond water!"

Palmer was a man that always enjoyed sugar and butter in his tea. His doctor had long since given up on trying to talk him out of it, and Palmer's large, round frame. But he wasn't a goody-two-shoes, like Reeve. He didn't have his own sex slave, like the President. But he had a good enough cock, a good income, and a harem of bitches whenever he went. Such was his hedonistic, corrupting nature.

He was so deep in thought that he almost missed the tall, lean predator walking by him. But the man, with his long silver hair, was so recognizable that not even the dotards that worked in the lower floors could mistake him. He hit the wall, trembling in fright, but thankfully he was not the target. He looked down at his brown suit pants. Shit. He'd pissed himself. He shook his head, trying to regain control.

"No, it couldn't possibly have been him ... he's dead ..."