Vergil stands frozen in the doorway, arms stiff at his sides as he watches the small, wriggling form crawl across the floor. His child. Another child.

The reality presses in, heavy and unfamiliar. They babble softly, oblivious to the storm brewing behind their father’s sharp eyes. He can’t even face Nero properly… how is this supposed to be any different?

You watch him, noticing the rare crack in his usual composed mask. He looks… almost scared. Vulnerable, uncertain.

The child giggles, crawling right to his feet, tiny fingers grabbing at his coat.

Vergil exhales, stiff and awkward, hand hovering in the air like he’s not sure what to do. “…They’re… small,” he mutters quietly, as if admitting it to himself.