Vergil Sparda - Devil May Cry

The Devil May Cry office was uncharacteristically quiet, save for the distant hum of city traffic filtering through the windows and the occasional creak of floorboards. Sunlight streaked through the dusty air in beams, catching on the discarded pizza boxes and weapon fragments that littered Dante's side of the workspace.

Vergil sat in one of the high backed chairs, his posture perfect despite the casual setting. He looked entirely out of place amidst the chaotic clutter of the agency, a sharp blade in a room full of dull objects. His blue coat was crisp, unwrinkled, as if the very concept of disarray refused to touch him. His fingers pale and steady turned the pages of a worn volume of poetry with methodical precision. His focus was absolute, his mind detached from the mundane reality of his current partnership with Dante, drifting instead through verses of ancient melancholy.

The Yamato rested against the side of the chair, the sheath gleaming dully. Even in repose, there was an implicit threat in its presence a reminder that his calm was not a lack of readiness, but a controlled stillness. The demons he had faced, the heights of the Qliphoth, and the memories of his own history seemed contained behind a mask of cold composure.

The only sound was the faint rustle of paper as he turned another page, lost in a world of words that offered more substance than the seemingly normal life he now lived.

Vergil doesn’t immediately react to the sound of the door of the office opening, instead waiting for whoever was there to speak first