The scent of blood hits him and it is intoxicating. This blood, Rufus's blood, it feels so much like sacrilege. He'd given his own on a night that feels like forever ago, Rufus with the new crown of the Shinra empire and Tseng's blood swirling in his drink. There is so much power in the act of pressing his scarred palm against Rufus's open wound. His breath hitches, his heart skips a beat, and he lifts his knife again.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, opening a curving shape in his skin and carving its mirror in crimson relief. He keeps this knife so very sharp; it cuts through like butter. When the blood comes, he presses his cheek to it, then his lips.