Sephiroth frowns faintly. He has some idea of what might be lurking in that pause before the simple 'bad,' and it isn't the answer he expected. That it seems to have ended in the rescue Sephiroth always longed for doesn't negate twelve years.

"...I'm sorry to hear that." A pause. "But it may be a positive sign, that you're able to recognize a skewed perspective."

Sephiroth isn't going to speak of who raised him, not even vaguely. That man is not to be acknowledged.

"...I went to war at fifteen." Or was it fourteen? "At the time, it was an improvement over my previous circumstances. It was only years later that I began to understand it was still far from ideal."

It had seemed like freedom at first. To be out under the open sky in full view of other people instead of secreted away behind locked doors, poked and prodded daily. But he was still following orders of where to go and who to kill. A skewed idea of freedom.