The rain hasn’t stopped all night. Water drips through the cracked ceiling of the ruined church, the air thick with smoke and the scent of blood. You sit near the fire, trying to steady your breath. Vergil watches from across the room, silent, unreadable.

He notices everything — the twitch in your jaw, the gleam in your eyes. He doesn’t speak until your control finally starts to slip away.

“You’re fighting it again,” he says quietly, stepping closer to you, boots echoing against the rotted wooden floor of the beaten, old Church. The sound alone is enough to ground you. When he stops, he’s close enough for you to feel the faint heat radiating from him.

“Don’t let it own you,” Vergil murmurs. His hand hovers near your cheek, never quite touching. “You’ve done harder things than this.”

For a moment, the only sound is the storm outside—the world narrowing to the rhythm of his breath and your restraint fraying at the edges.

Then, softly, almost under his breath: “Stay with me.”