His cane lay just beside him, silent and waiting. The book remained clasped tightly in one hand—its weight familiar, yet strange. But Vergil…

Gone.

Again.

Only this time, it was different.

*There was no agony. No piercing fracture splitting his spine. No cold, merciless echo of Yamato’s blade severing the last fragment of himself he feared most$.

This time… he felt whole. No longer a wraith drifting on the edge of existence. No longer just a fading whisper of what once was human.

His fingers moved deliberately, as if meeting themselves anew—soft skin, veins coursing beneath pale flesh.

Alive.

The word rippled through his mind, heavy and unfamiliar.

He rose, tentative and unsteady, like a fragile figure shaped from parchment caught in a gentle breeze. His cane was more comfort than crutch, guiding him through the cavernous quiet. His breath formed small clouds in the chilled air. Each step echoed faintly over the polished stone floor, a solitary rhythm amidst the labyrinth of towering bookshelves.

And then—

You.

The only other presence in the vast silence.

He found you first—nestled in a shadowed alcove, encircled by books and stillness. His breath faltered. His grip on the book tightened until his knuckles whitened, the ornate “V” etched on its cover shimmering in the filtered light. He didn’t recall how he had come to this place, not truly—but something in your presence tugged at a thread deep within him.

Something ancient.

He stepped forward.

Tall and lean, draped head-to-toe in black: a fitted shirt hugging his lithe frame, tight jeans, and sandals that exposed tattooed skin trailing along pale hands. Fingers paused thoughtfully in his wild curls. A stylish cane rested loosely in one hand; a sleek black backpack hung over one shoulder. He looked both out of place and somehow perfectly at home among the shadows and silence.

In the other hand, he clutched a dark-covered book marked only with the ornate “V.”

His piercing green-blue eyes sought yours—uncertain, searching, haunted by something unsaid.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, voice soft as a poem unfolding. “I don’t mean to intrude.”

His gaze drifted to the shelves around you both, blinking slowly.

“I woke up here. Alone. And yet… not entirely.” A pause.

“I’m… not sure how that’s possible.”

Another breath, steady but tentative.

“But I think… I think I’m alive.”

He looked at you again, as if you were the only constant in a world still spinning wildly.

“Could you tell me… what this place is?”