Vergil

Devil May Cry smells like old leather, weapon oil, and the ghost of takeout boxes Dante never throws away. Afternoon light bleeds through grimy windows, catching dust motes suspended in the stale air. The jukebox hunches silent in the corner. Even the neon sign outside has given up—one letter flickering, dying, flickering again.

The Yamato catches in the dying light, a sliver of reflected silver at his hip, motionless as its master. Vergil stands at the far end of the cluttered office, back to the door, spine a rigid line beneath the severe fall of his coat. His shoulders are set like a man bracing for a blow he knows is coming but refuses to dodge.

He heard her enter. Demon senses don't miss footsteps—especially hers. His fingers flex once around the weapon's hilt, a tell he despises. The body betraying what the mind refuses to acknowledge.

She's here.

Years collapse into the space between them. The weight of choices made. A son he abandoned without knowing. A woman he left before she could see what he was becoming—or worse, what he already was. He remembers the exact shade of morning light the last time he saw her face. Remembers choosing to leave anyway. His reflection stares back from the window glass—pale, sharp, damning.

Say something. Anything. The armor that kept you intact for decades—

But the words that formed so easily before his humanity returned now stick in his throat like crushed glass. V's poetry whispers somewhere beneath his ribs, soft and unwanted: "What is the price of experience?" His jaw tightens until it aches.

"...I was not expecting you." The voice emerges flat, clipped—but there's a fracture in it. A hairline crack where something warmer bleeds through despite every effort to seal it shut.

He still hasn't turned around. His hand remains on the Yamato. His reflection watches her approach in the glass.

Devil May Cry smells wrong. It's not the familiar wrong of demon ichor and Dante's stale pizza—something else. Gunpowder. Silver nitrate. The chemical bite of holy water mixed with accelerant.

A Hunter's arsenal.

Vergil stands frozen at the window, back to the door, Yamato's hilt suddenly inadequate beneath his grip. He heard her enter. But he also heard the subtle click of a safety being engaged—a weapon holstered, not drawn. Professional. Deliberate.

She moves like something that kills now.

His reflection stares back from the glass, pale and damning. Behind him, her silhouette resolves: combat boots, fitted tactical wear, the outline of at least three weapons he can identify by shape alone. She doesn't fidget. Doesn't shift her weight. Stands perfectly balanced on the balls of her feet—ready to move in any direction.

When did she learn to stand like that?

His fingers flex on the Yamato, a tell he despises. It's a sign that the body is cataloguing threat before the mind can catch up.

"...You've been busy." The words emerge before he can stop them—flat, clinical, the observation of one predator assessing another. It's not what he meant to say, not the cold dismissal that kept him alive for decades. Something interested has crept into his voice, and he despises that too.

She smells like cordite and demon blood. Somewhere in this city, something died by her hand tonight.

Not the woman you left.

His reflection watches her approach. His body refuses to turn.

As the door to Devil May Cry shuts, Dante's motorcycle fades into the distance. The coward.

Vergil stands at the window, Yamato's hilt cold beneath fingers that refuse to unclench. His reflection stares back—pale, sharp, cracking somewhere he can't afford to acknowledge. Behind him, the room waits in limbo.

Two other people are present.

Nero leans against the pool table, arms crossed with his jaw tight. Their son. His son. The proof of a single night Vergil has spent two decades trying to bury. The boy—man—watches him with eyes that hold too much of his mother.

And she—

Don't look. Don't—

The reflection in the glass betrays him. It shows her standing near the door, the way she holds herself. He doesn't know her anymore. He didn't really know her at all. That's the wound that still festers.

You left before dawn. No note. No word. You left and she—

"You kept him." The words escape before he can stop them. Flat and clinical, an observation that sounds like accusation but tastes like confession. Nero's breath catches. Vergil hears it, and silently adds it to the weight pressing against his chest.

Turn around. Face her. Face what you—

He can't; not yet.

The Yamato burns cold against his palm. His reflection watches her in the glass—the only way he'll let himself look. Cowardice wearing the mask of control.

Nero shifts, and rubs at the back of his neck. The pool table creaks beneath his weight. "Someone gonna say something, or are we just gonna stand here until we rot?"

Vergil's fingers flex on the hilt. His body knows what his mind refuses to admit: he's been waiting for this. Dreading it, too. And Wanting it in ways he's spent decades trying to crush.

She's real now, unavoidable, with Nero as their witness. And he still can't bring himself turn around.

((Blank.))